Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

David arrives late for rehearsal. It’s not his fault really, what with the rain slowing traffic to a crawl, and how he lives further from the August Sky Repertory Theatre than the rest of the group, and of course the bus is always late…

... is how he’s rationalising sleeping way, way in when Lloyd inevitably rakes him over the metaphorical coals for his tardiness. The company’s irritable stage manager detested when things didn’t go exactly according to plan, with lateness being a particularly egregious sin in his books. David thanks the stars that today’s rehearsal is only student-run, so he won’t have to deal with all that, on top of their director, William’s, trademark ‘I’m-not-mad-I’m-disappointed’ side glance that sometimes cut deeper than the worst of Lloyd’s tirades.

So when David barrels through the main entrance, sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floors, runs up the stairs to the auditorium on the building’s second floor, he’s fully prepared a barrage of apologetic excuses and half-truths. And when he pushes past the double doors, an ‘I’m so, so sorry' is on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill from his mouth.

And then he realises that Lloyd is, quite inexplicably, absent from their rehearsal.

His footsteps slow, and he proceeds at a steady trot downward, past rows of velvet-covered seats, to where Jill and Michael are, eating pizza with their legs dangling over the lip of the stage, spilling crumbs into the orchestra pit (something Lloyd and William would grow white hairs over, if they were actually there to begin with).

“Yo, Davey!” Michael waves. He scoots over two paper cups of soda, and pats the now-empty spot next to him. Taking his cue, David boosts himself up on the stage, plucking a slice of pizza from Jill’s hands.

“Hey. Sorry ‘m late.” He shoves half the pizza into his mouth, ignoring Jill’s protests.

“Damn, David, this your first meal of the day?” Michael balks, wordlessly passing a new pizza slice over to Jill, who accepts it with a huff.

“Yeah, actually.” David finishes off the crust, wipes greasy fingers off on his jeans. “Stayed up too late last night rushing a submission, so I overslept. No time for breakfast. I thought Lloyd would be ready and waiting to chew me out though. Where is he?”

As if on cue, Asha emerges from left wing, pacing the stage and chattering anxiously on her phone. “And you’re sure you’re getting enough water? Did you take a panadol? I could get some soup delivered to you.” Noticing David for the first time, she mouths a silent, Lloyd’s sick.

“You’re joking.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to David.

“What?” He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “He’s never sick. Don’t you guys ever notice he’s at rehearsal, like, always? He’s never late, never forgets to bring his script, and he never falls sick. it’s like he’s some sort of automaton. A weird theatre-obsessed automaton who runs on.. uhh..”

“Salt,” Jill offers, “and spite.”

“Yeah, that.” David holds out his hand to Asha, currently glaring daggers at him and Jill. “Can I talk to him? Just, you know, to be sure? And to wish him well and all.”

Sighing, Asha says a final “Take care, okay?” to the person on the other side of the phone, and passes it over to David’s outstretched hand.

“Lloyd?”

The voice coming through the Huawei’s tinny speaker is barely recognisable, raspy and low. “David. You’re late for rehearsal. You know-“ a series of hacking coughs interrupts whatever Lloyd (because it was, most unmistakably, Lloyd) was trying to say.

“Hey, hey, save it, yeah?” David’s own voice is threaded through with concern, but he can’t help a slight smile from crossing his face. Even when sick, Lloyd still can’t resist trying to lecture him. That sanctimonious idiot. “You’ll have plenty of time to yell at me once you’re better.”

A tiny chuckle. “That’s a.. all the incentive I need.” He clears his throat once, then twice. “Anyhow, I expect you all to continue rehearsal as normal. I’ve put Asha in charge. Just.. run through Janissary again, David, you’re taking over as Narrator, try to memorise your blocking, a-“

“-excuse me, what?!?”

“- I said, memorise y.. your blocking, and-“

“- no, no, the other thing. You want me to play the Narrator?!??”

“I don’t misspeak, David. There’s no one else to fill in for me, and we all know I narrate terribly.”

“B.. but Michael could, or I could call in his understudy. And who’s gonna work on lighting? I thought that was my job!”

“I-“ another coughing fit, “-I’ve arranged for Kate to take over the lighting, just for today. She should be arriving soon.” As if to anticipate the further protests forming in David’s mind, he continues. “You auditioned into this theatre program to sing and act, just like the rest of us. You can’t expect to keep hiding backstage and playing background roles. It’s time for you to step u-“ Lloyd’s voice gives out entirely, and Asha snatches the phone from David’s limp grasp.

“You’ve lost your phone privileges,” she says smoothly. Then, turning away from David, spluttering and panicking, she addresses the sick stage manager (and friend!) on the other end of the line. “Lloyd, stop trying to talk on a hoarse throat or I’m going to chuck Brija’s spear at you again. We’ve got this handled. Just sleep someplace cool, keep a cold compress someplace handy. We’ll all come over to visit you once we’re done for the day — nonono, don’t say anything — we will come in and take care of you, because gods know your dad’s not gonna do it, so hush. Go to sleep, and rest well.. Love you too.”

With that, she flicks her phone shut, pockets it, and turns toward the rest of the group, all staring silently at her. She colours a little, tucking a stray curl self-consciously behind her ear. “What?”

“He said ‘love you’?” Michael grins, forming air quotes around the words. “That boy is havin' a fever.”

Jill smacks his arm. “Don’t be an asshole. We know Asha’s more of his mom than anything, not... you know...” She and Asha shoot meaningful glances at David, who, for the record, looks entirely perplexed. Jill mentally sighs. David would come to terms with his crush on Lloyd eventually (or at least, she hopes so, the energy between the two of them is entirely too weird and awkward otherwise).

“Yeah, call me a mom all you like, we all know you’re planning on visiting him after rehearsal too. I just took the liberty of saying we’re all going to spare him having to argue with us individually. Speaking of.” She pulls her long, dark hair into a ponytail, the universal code for let’s get down to business, and claps her hands together. “Shall we begin rehearsing? Kate? Kate!”

The dark, silent theatre is filled with an electrical hum, as row by row, lights spark to life, growing brighter and brighter as they warm up. The control booth at the back of the theatre illuminates, revealing Kate, a freshman and the newest member of New Albion University’s theatre program, clad in a pair of headphones half the size of her face, waving at the group below.

“Sorry, sorry!” Her voice, mic’d up to the theatre’s speakers, bounces eerily around the room. “You guys seemed to be distracted, so I zoned out. Are we ready to start?”

Scowling, David asks, “Was she there the whole time? Was anyone gonna tell me I got replaced as lighting tech by the freshie?”

“Might want to cut the snark there, buddy,” Kate’s amplified voice warns.

“What she said. Also, take this as a valuable learning experience,” Asha says. “You do a good Vizier, but it’s about time you tried a bigger role.”

“And even if it ends horribly, it's fine, since this is just today’s arrangement!” Jill pipes up.

David groans. “Not helping.”

Michael claps him on the shoulder. “Heyyy, you’ll be fine, Davey. Just read through the script and remember where to stand. You got this, man.”

Nodding, David fishes out his Janissary script, and flings his satchel bag toward the seats, where it lands lopsided on the front row.

“Places, everyone! Jill and Michael, clear the trash from the stage!” Asha calls out. “David, stand here.” She ushers him gently to where a faint ‘x’ is taped, downstage right.

A chill runs up his spine. He isn’t hidden upstage, or holed up in the control booth, he’s here, standing at the August Sky Repertory Theatre’s unofficial ‘sweet spot’, a space on stage where even the softest voice can cut right through the cavernous auditorium, clear as crystal. A space reserved for soloists, for the most important characters to have their moment in the spotlight. For anyone but him.

Experimentally, he clears his throat, and almost winces when the sound travels through the vast performance space, silencing the others where they are standing.

“Are you ready, David?”

He turns to look at Asha. “I don’t think I’ll ever be, but I guess we gotta start sometime.” He clears his throat again, rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. “Okay. Act 1, Scene 1.”

The house lights dim, and narrow to spotlight David. He feels their warmth, looks out across the rows of empty seats.

There’s something special, about the moment just before the start of a performance. As one, the world comes to a standstill, and holds its breath in waiting. In the silence, David is all too aware of the thump, thump, thumping of his heart, the rustling of pages as sweaty hands flip his script open, to where the narrator’s lines lie, clean and unannotated. Tabula rasa, a blank slate, leaving only possibility.

The air crackles with anticipation, so thick he can barely breathe, and he can feel the others’ eyes upon him, watching, waiting for him to shatter that tension like glass.

This tale not all will attend, his first line reads.

He takes a breath, back straightening of its own accord. Addressing the invisible audience, he opens his mouth, and begins his performance.

Chapter Text

They were supposed to be the Cult of Azathoth, Lord Of All Things. They had trained for generations, become masters of ritual and blade. All this to prepare for the coming of their Great and Quite Odious God.

So why and how did they end up like this? Recruit Dennis lain low by a sandbag to the face (though to be fair, he was always a little dim, so this didn’t come as a particular shock to the others), Acolyte Natasha still nursing the burn from when she touched the heated doorknob to the props room. Even High Prophetess Olga, who had deigned to accompany their group on what was to be their final mission to retrieve.. him, had fallen prey to an inconspicuous tripwire, the results of which were, to be brief, unpleasant and messy. Another three had split off from their group to explore the makeshift labyrinth for a way out, and their screams that came a few minutes later reverberated through the the dark, treacherous space.

And now, here they were. Acolyte Richard and two other survivors, sat — or more accurately, strapped to seats — around a table, attempting to solve a puzzle (one of those thousand-piece ones they sold at the board games shop down the street) as spinning blades moved closer and closer to the blood-slicked table.

And of course, seated on a raised dais on the community theatre's stage, watching over it all, was Lloyd Allen, a maniac glint in his eyes, knives strapped to sheaths at his arms and legs, toying with a noose in his hands.

“Now, now, you all really must hurry! You’re running out of time, and I don’t want more blood to get on my puzzle pieces than strictly necessary. It was quite expensive to procure, you know! And I have a prize waiting for you at the end!”

Indeed, Acolyte Richard hadn’t expected his last moments to be quite like this. He had imagined death by madness, his mind breaking when the cult finally summoned Azathoth in his unknowable glory. He had imagined death by ritual sacrifice, in the event that he displeased the Grand Inquisitor enough. He had even imagined living a long, respectable life in a world post-rebirth-of-Azathoth-Lordofallthings, dying comfortably in his bed, surrounded by the eldritch abominations he called children, before a leisurely stroll down to the hell that was inevitably waiting for him After.

What he wasn’t expecting, was to spend his last moments ducked under a table in search of a corner piece for a puzzle depicting tropical birds in flight, their mark-turned-hunter currently cackling and humming Al Bowlly’s Heartaches.

It really was a shame. The Beings that contacted them, supposedly mysterious individuals that had transcended the boundaries of human thought, had promised them help with the summoning ritual. All they needed to do in return was kill one Lloyd Allen, a task that had proven tricky at first, then deadly not long after.

For Lloyd Allen wasn’t the frightened, shaking boy of a few months prior, when they made first contact. Now, his brown eyes were almost glowing, his dark hair tossed about by an invisible wind.

The last words Acolyte Richard heard, as the many blades whirred closer (other than the ever present ‘ohgodohfuckwe'regonnadie’s of his compatriots), was a lone voice, raw from overuse, screaming, “SO LONG, SUCKERS!!!”

Acolyte Richard regarded Lloyd Allen, almost monstrous in the dim, electric light.

Huh, he thought, maybe we did summon something after all.

And then the blades came down.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a girl. An unhappy girl from an unhappy home, despite how well they hid the fact behind smiles and neat clothing during the weekly Voodoopunk processions they attended.

It wasn’t that her parents couldn’t take care of her, they certainly didn’t beat her or make her cry. They simply… never saw the need to do better than that.

One day, when the girl arrived home disconsolate, affected by some incident in the schoolyard or another, her mother, exasperated, simply told her to grow up.

And so, the girl shed her childhood naïveté, and grew up.

She began spending more time out, citing friends and movies and the new Shopagopolis that had opened up. Unbeknownst to her parents, all that was a lie. She had found new friends, certainly, but those friends lived underground, and were not human in any way, shape, or form.

The young teenager spent afternoons and evenings after school with the creatures. She would scurry about underground like an insect, finding food and supplies, hiding her poor friends away from the mob and the megacorporation who brought them there.

Until one day, when she was 17, her parents told her that if she never bothered to come home, there really wasn’t a point to her living with them anymore, was there?

They gave her a choice — her family, or her new ‘friends’

And so, the young teenager shed her old family, and her old home.

She continued helping the creatures, until they were eventually saved by a boy with magic paint.

He had asked once, as the goblins and gnomes were herded through the swirling, spray-painted portals, if she wanted to leave as well. A paradise, created just for her, away from the misery and hardship of New Albion.

The teenager thought long and hard, and came to a decision. The world was broken, sure, but that was why she couldn’t leave. Like the starfish on the beach, or the beat of a butterfly’s wings, she would change the world, bit by bit, doing whatever she could to make things better for those who needed help the most.

And so, the teenager gave up a life of bliss, and stayed behind.

Soon, the painter left too, and she was alone. The underground was cavernous, and the teenager was a solitary spider exploring its depths, weaving webs of safety in dark corners, squirrelling away for the night in whatever nest she could find or make.

And then, she met the boy that would be her husband on one of the rare days she attended school. He was kind, and funny, and let her crash on his pullout couch when he learned of her situation. He introduced her to a new sect of Voodoopunks in his neighbourhood, and she quickly endeared herself to the community.

It was nice, the teenager had to admit, practicing the religion again, after she stopped attending the sect her parents frequented, keeping to prayers said when she remembered to.

Weeks, months, and then a year passed. Time was marked by daily chants and gatherings, afternoons meditating on Voodoopunk koans. She would spend her evenings with her beau, as they talked of everything and nothing, drinking milkshakes and going rollerblading and doing all the things she never got to do when she was living on her own.

In a blur, they had graduated. Her beau asked, as they both lay on the roof of his hovercar on a warm summer's night, if she would marry him. She said yes, and kissed him under the stars.

They were married soon after, and she left the underground behind. Its secret corners and passageways would always be a part of her, but she had a Place, now. A respected wife, already expecting a child. A pillar of the community.

And a pillar the woman was. She organised barbecues, gathered donations when word got around of a neighbour experiencing hard times. She had promised herself that she’d make the world better, one person at a time, and so she did.

When the Elysium project was announced, it was met with celebration and trepidation in equal measure. But the woman rejoiced. Here was the chance to build the world she had dreamed of, a paradise where no one would be lost, or neglected, or hurt ever again

Preparations were made, with the woman’s years of experience hoarding supplies in the underground coming particularly handy.

And the day finally arrived. A crowd of thousands, chanting and swaying, lit by an eerie purple light as the massive portal at Arcadia’s gates yawned open.

Her husband took her left hand, in her right, she cradled Arachne, her youngest, with Anansi and Acari fit on a stroller.

“No second thoughts?”

His tone was teasing, but the fear in his eyes was genuine.

She thought of her years spent trying to improve the world, bit by bit, all coming to fruition in Elysium.

“No second thoughts.”

The woman shed New Albion like a second skin, and walked into the portal, head full of heaven, a hymnal on her lips.

She lost them all, not long after. It was a night raid, and she had not managed to rouse them in time to flee the Angels descending on their camp.

She remembered screaming, pairs of hands muffling her yell, pulling her back, stopping her from revealing their hiding place so she could save them save them someone please they're all I have.

She could only return after, when the coast was clear. She remembered walking numbly through the ruined encampment, blistered fingers sifting through smouldering tent cloth and red dirt, uncovering their bodies underneath.

There wasn’t enough of them left to hang on to as she sobbed, but there she remained, hunched over their ashes, fingers clutching fragments of bone.

How could she have believed that she’d save the world, one person at a time, when her world lay in dust at her feet?

And so the woman shed the last of her innocence, and became the thing that killed.

Time passed, though it was difficult to tell with Elysium’s skies, ever swirling red and purple. The hunter did what she had to do to survive. She learned to take solace in the cold steel of her double-barrelled shotgun, dispatching their pursuers, a dozen and a hundred times over, and with every Angel slaughtered, she’d touch the bones she wore around her neck.

For you, my loves.

Until one day, after years or decades of blood and loss, the broken portal they had first arrived in opened once more. A girl carrying a tablet stepped through, and offered them a choice.

Go through the portal, or go through the transfer.

The hunter wanted to laugh. For her, there wasn't even a choice.

All her life, she had worked to save as many as she could, and when she thought her life’s work was complete, it was revealed that it was all some sort of cosmic joke. She’d led the ones she loved most to the slaughterhouse, along with thousands of others. She left New Albion, her home, to decay.

She had to atone. There was no great redemption in store for her, only a chance to reverse as much of the damage as she possibly could.

The tablet warned that the transfer would lead to… unpredictable consequences. Loss of personality, of empathy.

The hunter had already given up so much. Her old family, her shot at paradise, her home, her new family, her innocence. All in service of some grand idea that the world was capable of saving.

It was funny. Even after all that had happened, she still believed it. She had to. So what if yet another part of her was lost in the process?

The hunter closed her eyes, brought her necklace to her lips.

I won’t let your deaths be in vain.

And so Mary sacrificed her humanity, and transformed.

Chapter Text

Lloyd Allen is sick. Like, sick sick. Not the sort where he gets a runny nose and maybe a hoarse throat that clears up in a day.

No, this is the everything-at-once, Chernobyl-nuclear-fucking-meltdown-anthropomorphised kind of sick. He’s hot (and not in the good way that, as Kelis once put it, brings all the boys to the yard). His throat feels like someone attempted to make him swallow hot control rods (to continue the Chernobyl metaphor). About every facial orifice is leaking steadily. Looking at himself in the mirror is an experience akin to staring at the Elephant’s Foot.

To put it sparingly, he feels like shit.

And, he laments, lying on his side on the living room couch, today is the absolute worst day to fall sick.

Through half open eyes, he gazes at the clock hung on the wall, — an old-fashioned thing circled with Roman numerals, because everything about his dad is old fashioned, a trait that passed from father to son — ticking steadily to 10am, when rehearsal is slated to start.

He briefly considers pushing himself off the couch, wrapping himself in a warm coat, and going anyways. After all, they’re just starting to rehearse Janissary in earnest, having almost memorized the scripts and choreography and blocking, and it physically pains him to be absent just when the real work is about to begin.

On the other hand, he can’t have the entire cast be bedridden because of him.

Mulling over his choices, he doesn’t remember when exactly he blacked out, only to be woken up again by the vibrating of his phone on the floor next to him.

Groaning, he reaches out his hand to answer it, and the very action feels like moving through slow, thick honey. He manages, but by the time he brings the phone to his face, the call ends.

The too-bright display tells him he missed a call from Asha.

A slight smile crosses his face. Of course she’d be the first to call him.

He dials back, and she picks up right away. “Lloyd?” Her voice is high and hurried. “Thank goodness you picked up. Me and the others are so worried. Are you all right?”

Try to sound like nothing’s wrong. “I’m fi-achOO!”

Well, so much for that.

“Oh Lloyd, you’re sick?”

“That- that much is obvious, Asha.” He forces the words out through a stuck throat, and is too busy cringing as sneeze-gunk runs down his face (gross) to regret his curt tone.

She sucks in a breath. “Sorry, sorry, god I’m such an asshole. Is it a fever?”

He wants to tell her that the asshole is him, that she shouldn’t waste her breath on someone as ungrateful as he, but all he manages is a short, “Yeah.”

“And from the sound of it, a sore throat and a stuffy nose as well. Do you have a glass of water somewhere nearby? Do you feel well enough to see the doctor?”

“No, and… no.”

“Lloyd- “

“Sorry.”

“- stop- stop hating yourself for one second. I was going to say I can come over right now, if you want me to.”

That’s enough to snap him awake. “NO!” He pauses, wiping his nose. “No. Continue rehearsing, take over for me. I want everyone’s lines fully memorized by next week.”

Now it’s Asha’s turn to be the naysayer of the conversation. He listens, with some grim satisfaction, as she splutters on the phone. “M-me? You want me to be- bu-“

“I’m sick, remember?” He coughs once, for emphasis. “You have to do what I say.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll do my best, and I’ll let the others know you can’t make it. In the meantime, you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yyyyes?”

“And you’re sure you’re getting enough water? Did you take a panadol? I could get some soup delivered to you-“

The rest of the conversation passes in a blurry haze. He vaguely remembers telling Asha to very much not waste precious rehearsal time by ordering food for him, and was it a fever-induced hallucination, or did he tell David to take over as narrator? Did he comfort the fraught third year until he no longer could, Asha finally stepping in to tell him to rest?

Well that he can certainly do. As Asha says something about sleeping in a cold place, he is already drifting off on the couch. He watches the (decidedly not cold) living room’s ceiling fan turn lazy circles, he murmurs a half-conscious ‘I love you’ to Asha, and he finally surrenders to unconsciousness.

Knock knock.

Knock knock knock.

“Lloyd? Are you there?”

What….

Lloyd stirs, and immediately regrets doing so. His hair sticks to the nape of his neck, and a layer of awful post-nap sweat coats his skin. Yet, despite the warm, stuffy air, he’s shivering, curling into himself, trying to figure out if the knocks on the door are figments of his fevered imagination.

“I think he’s still asleep.” The voices he hears are muffled, but definitely there. Is that David?

“Nothing else for it, we gotta pick the lock. I can use my hairpin.”

“Jill, NO!” His ears pick up Asha’s shrill soprano.

Michael’s telltale drawl comes next. “Doesn’t Lloyd keep a key outside the house somewhere? Was it the doormat, or the flowerpot…”

Lloyd’s eyes drift closed once again, until…

“LLOYD!!!” Two blurs bound toward him, but are quickly yanked back.

“Don’t crowd him! He’s way too warm as is.”

Lloyd rasps, “Asha... ? And Jill and Michael a.. And David? What are you all doing here?”

He feels himself being lifted, bridal style, and pressed against a sturdy chest, can feel the vibrations as Michael speaks. “We’re here’ta take care of our favourite stage manager, of course!”

“But.. you.. Rehearsals?”

“Done and dusted,” David says, hovering behind Michael as he carries Lloyd into the bedroom, depositing him gently on his soft mattress. “It went… not terribly, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Pfft, Davey here’s bein’ waaay too modest. As you predicted, he makes a pre-tty awesome narrator.”

David opens his mouth to protest, but Michael shushes him. “Go, set up the Switch so our boy Lloyd has somethin’ to entertain himself with once he’s feelin’ better.”

The obliging theatre techie in David wins out over his self-deprecating side, and he obediently trots off, leaving Michael in the room with a rather overwhelmed Lloyd.

“Don’t lie,” Lloyd begins, “was he really…”

“Yes.” Michael fishes out a thermometer from his backpack and takes Lloyd’s temperature. “Woof, 38 degrees. You’re burnin’ up. Aaanyways, David’s a little nervous, sure, I’ll let Asha fill you in on all the specific details, but he’s got potential. A loootta potential.”

Lloyd lets out a breath. “Good.”

“Now less talkin’, more tryna’ get better soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lloyd gives a small nod.

The other boy pats his arm, and leaves Lloyd, giving room for Jill to breeze in, pushing cups of honey lemon and hot herbal tea and instructing him to drink, opening the windows to let the cool spring air in, and twining small flowers around his shelves and bedposts, before finally pulling his rolling study chair over to his bedside.

“Asha’s in overdrive,” she says conspiratorially, “been freaking out ever since the call. She tried to hide it, obviously, but we could tell. She’s, like, super worried about you, so real talk. Are you okay?”

The chamomile tea warms his throat as he drinks, and he finds his voice flowing freer than before. “I’m all right, really. Some irresponsible delinquent in my lit class came in with a flu, which no doubt passed on to me.”

“But you’ve never been sick before, at least, you haven’t been like the entire time we’ve known you!”

“When my immune system is down, it’s down, I suppose.”

Jill’s face pulls in a sympathetic pout. “Oof, that’s rough. Least it’s not anything serious. If it was, you’d tell us, right?”

Lloyd must have paused too long, because Jill leans forward with sudden earnestness, necklaces adorned with tiny silver trinkets dangling in front of his face. “We care about you. I know Michael and I like to give you grief, but we really do. We’ve been friends for years now, and if something happened, it’d be like I lost my- my brother or something!”

His face heats. “Jill… I... of course. Of course I’d tell you. I care for you all greatly as well, even if I don’t show it.” His hand finds Jill’s. “Thank you, for saying that.”

She gives his hand a squeeze. “Just saying what we’re all thinking. I’m gonna go play Smash with Michael and David. You,” she stands up, tapping his shoulder lightly, “rest.”

“I will.”

She leaves Lloyd, a little confused at the interaction, though all that falls away when Asha enters the room, a bowl of hot ginseng chicken broth in hand.

“I’m sorry for being so curt on the phone, just now,” he blurts out.

Asha waves his apology off. “Water under the bridge. Eat up.”

Time passes, Lloyd savouring spoonfuls of soup as Asha sponges him with cold water, giving him a play-by-play of their rehearsal. The details remain hazy in his mind, though Lloyd does chuckle when his friend tells him of David forgetting he was so far downstage that he almost missed his cue and fell right off the raised platform, saved only when Michael yanked him backwards.

“That.. certainly explains why his shirt is hanging off of him a little looser than before.” Lloyd remarks.

Asha sweeps the finished bowl of soup from his grasp, replacing it with a glass of water and a Panadol. “Interesting that even with a fever, you notice how David’s shirt fits on him.”

It’s lucky that Lloyd only has the glass raised to his lips, else he would have done a spit-take. “Wh- what?!?? Who said anything about me staring at David’s shirt?! It’s just a- a casual observation, anyone would notice it!”

Asha grins. “Naturally, naturally.”

“What does that mean?!”

“Nothing!” She says breezily.

Lloyd stares at Asha, currently sending a text on her phone to someone. From the living room outside, he hears Jill snort.

Ordinarily, he would press, but as is, his information-overloaded brain begins to shut down once again.

Eventually, he says the short, tried-and-true, “Sure."

Asha looks at him with surprise. “That it? You’re letting me off that easy?”

“ ‘m tired,” he simply says, sinking lower into his sheets. “I’ll ask again if I remember.”

Asha busies herself switching on the AC, drawing the curtains so they don’t let in the late afternoon sun. “Sleep, and properly this time, okay? We’ll be waiting outside for you once you wake up.”

“M’kay.” His eyes are already half-closed, watching Asha hover in the doorway.

“I love you, Lloyd.”

I really did say that on the phone, huh.

Nothing else for it, then. “Love you too.”

When Lloyd wakes, his senses come alive one at a time. He feels better than he did in the morning, the medicine doing its work so he’s no longer covered in a cold sweat. His nose is clear, and he inhales the room’s cool air, permeated with the faint scent of Jill's chrysanthemums.

He sits up. It’s properly dark, now, and he can hear faint voices outside.

Gingerly, Lloyd pads out of his room, peeks around the entrance to the living room, and sees his friends, crammed together on the couch, whisper-screaming as Princess Peach beats the shit out of Link on the TV screen.

It’s hard to tell who it was who notices him standing in the shadows first, but it’s David who says, “Guys, Lloyd’s up!”, followed by a responding chorus of cheers from his friends.

His friends.

Is it his fever, or is the warmth he feels rushing through him as they make room on the couch coming from someplace else entirely?

Is him resting his head on David’s shoulder as they watch the colourful screen a result of fatigue, or… something else?

And is David tilting his head so it rests on his in turn coming from the same place too?

Later, they sit at the kitchen table, eating soupy noodles ordered in by Michael, and Lloyd wonders if it's the hunger from his previously light meals, or if the food, eaten as he sits surrounded by his friends, is the best he’s ever had?

Is it the thinking of his sickness-muddled mind, or is his house, filled with inane chatter and loud, boisterous laughter, so unlike the cold, quiet days spent with his father, more like a home to him than it ever was before?

And is it his imagination, or is this small group of theatre nerds truly his family? Family he never had, family that disappeared when his mother left?

Even after his father does return, frowning at the mess and noise, and his friends sheepishly clear the takeout boxes and unplug the switch and wash the dirty plates and cups, finally bidding him forlorn goodbyes and get-well-soons, the thoughts don’t leave.

Lloyd pops another pill and heads back to bed, sending a short ‘thank you’ in the main cast and crew group chat, switching off his phone as he sees the wall of responding texts and stickers flooding in.

He settles his sheets back around him, catches sight of evidence that the afternoon and evening truly happened - flowers adding a splash of colour to the space, a scribbled ‘gws’ post-it from David on his bedside table.

Lloyd Allen goes back to sleep with a small smile. After all, the sooner he gets better, the sooner he can return to the theatre. The sooner he can see his family. The sooner he can come home.