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Strolling casually through a cheerful, amiable crowd, the dubiously-named William Shamspeare surveyed his audience. Advancing in a manner very similar to the Queen on parade he grinned ear to ear, threw out swishing waves to new acquaintances, and thoroughly shoved down the tide of rising bile that churned in his throat. A mass invite pulling his soon-to-be-colleagues to a hastily rented locale wasn't exactly his idea of a party (which usually tended towards seedy nightclub sojourns or the more depraved variants of masked ball), but as his recent interview for the position had very nearly gone tits-up on him, he needed to make sure he made an entrenched impression on the rest of the faculty. Stung a fair amount budget-wise, but as he persistently reminded himself, it was an investment.
Besides, Aldi's was pulling a 6-for-£10 on wine, and if you fancied up the labels a bit nobody could tell the difference. He gave his glass a leisurely sip, savoring the familiar bouquet of supermarket swill.
It was as drab as expected, of course ― a hum of wizened academics with blinkered, dreary lives ― but he'd been cast as a famous actor and he had to play the part. The key to these affairs was to look like you were trying to blend in; overt peacocking got deserved skepticism, but proving 'surprisingly down-to-earth' supplemented an existing reputation. A hairstyle arranged down to each strand to produce the effect of being charmingly unkempt. A smattering of jewelry, enough to be noticeable but not enough to be tasteless. Some assorted rings and a thin silver necklace. (Two necklaces, technically, but the other one was kept out of view under his sweater, designated for far more pragmatic reasons than public display.)
It wasn't hard, after you learned the knack. You kept your voice keen and your eyes attentive, you peppered in enough follow-up questions to let people go on about themselves without seeming intrusive, you kept your options open and your demeanor flexible, you knew when to take your curtain call and leave them with a memory that hadn't overstayed its welcome. Playing to the crowd, continuously dropping select snippets from his long-term and long-dead partner in crime. He might've given up on his hopes of making it in theater a long time ago, but it wasn't a big loss, since the old boy was right ― all the world's a stage.
Not exactly a tough crowd, either. Give a bunch of middle-class middle-aged people a culturally acceptable excuse to get drunk and things tended to progress amiably. He drifted from group to group, picking up names, learning habits, a social butterfly collecting nectar. Absorbing tidbits and gossip as he went, amassing an arsenal of potential weaponry to be tucked away for the future. Never to attack, not directly ― just to make sure you were standing in the right place, whenever anything started going down.
Overall, the night was going exactly as planned. It was just a shame that the place seemed to be haunted.
A sense of implacable unease prickled behind him. Something slightly eerie in the air, a creeping feeling at the back of his neck, like he was being...not just watched, but stared down intently. And here and there, a voice that whisked away on the tides, a hovering, untraceable spectre. As he was espousing stretched-thin analysis of Desdemona, a hushed mumble of "...not the point..." drifted by his shoulder. When he'd dropped some usually-popular trivia on historical puns, a "...reflects cultural context..." emanated from some far-off corner of the room.
Faintly unnerving, but he pressed on, drifting from person to person and tailoring observations to their field. As it was, he'd drifted into the company of a self-described 'modern and rational' woman on her third glass of wine.
It wasn't an accident; she'd given off the air of a proud busybody, and it was always important to identify how information ebbed and flowed in any circle you were trying to breach. At present she was entirely hooked, cutting her teeth into his imaginary exploits. "And these actors you've coached―anyone I would've heard of?"
He shook his head gently, giving off a serene smile. "The better part of valor is discretion, and bound, alas, by NDA, I cannot tell you much." A look of understanding disappointment flitted across her face, at which he raised his glass to his lips with a seemingly-absentminded mumble. "But...the reach does go slightly further West beyond our dear West End."
The inevitable conclusion made her brows shoot up in tall arches, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial hush. "You don't mean Hollywood, do you?"
"Aha, well..." He flicked his eyes away for a split second, letting out an uneasy chuckle. "I think, but dare not speak."
"Say no more, say no more! I can keep a secret, Mr. Shamspeare." She made a mock-show of zipping her lips and he shot her a relieved smile, knowing full well that the faculty would be abuzz with half-informed rumors by tomorrow. One of her hands went to her cheek, tapping idly. "Shamspeare...it's a distinctive name, isn't it?"
His wrist arched up in theatrical flourish. "It's more of a stage name, infused with quiet wit ― after all, are those who dare to tread the boards after the great bard not all, in some way, frauds and fools?" At the traces of hearing behind him, a quiet, disdainful snort drifted on the wind, and he felt his fingers twitching. Whatever that ghost was, it was getting on his nerves.
"Oh, I suppose, yes! Very romantic, in a way." A sharp nod of approval before she fixed her rapt gaze back at him, a minor galaxy of stars glinting in her eyes. "Anyway, what were you saying? It was all very interesting."
"Ah, that while it's no doubt a classic, the tendency for glorification of its central pair does come off as woefully uninformed." Seemed the safest tack to take―not two weeks ago, he'd argued the opposite. "Though manifold adaptations have distorted the heart of the play, at its soul lies a dark tale of love-conquers-all, rather naïve through modern eyes. A tragedy unfolding through two reckless pawns, throwing away their lives carelessly, beholden to their impulsive whims." He straightened his back, his sonorous tones unrolling as smooth as red carpet. "It's all the more apparent when considering the passivity of Jul―"
"But surely you can't actually believe that."
The phantom voice. He whirled around, saw nothing, and wondered briefly if the place really was haunted before he looked down. Standing before him, and, to some degree, below him was a fairly short, distinctly disdainful, extremely bedraggled-looking man: Moustache sizeable and bristly, suit festooned with strands of cat hair, eyes like he hadn't slept for nine years and counting.
Though an absolute stranger to him, the woman at his side seemed to be intimately familiar with this sort of thing. The irritation on her face was immediate and, unlike his own, utterly undisguised. "Oh, Mr. Natsume―there's no need to start a fight, is there?"
"Not exactly a fight, no, just finding facts first and foremost!" One of his hands snapped into the air, brandishing a lecturing finger. "After all, while, yes, romance presents the driving force of the narrative, it's laughably ludicrous to reduce the primary pair to clueless youths, as their love ― unpolished, yes, sincere, yes ― acts as representative for the vital role of unexpected companionship in developing the strength to seize your own fate! The culmination climaxes in the intentional decision of compassion above cruelty, a theme developed throughout in a series of hasty but heartfelt acts! A-and Juliet isn't merely a passive, peer-pressured participant, indeed, in fact, in many senses she's the stronger character―"
And he'd gone off on a rattling rant with the sort of meticulous attention to detail that tended to bore the audience to tears, at a speed that was frankly impressive, quoting passages and citing sources between frenzied breaths. Shamspeare found Midsummer Night's Dream flitting through his head, but not one of the more flattering sections; though she be but little, she is fierce.
"And―and furthermore―" The intruder inhaled slightly too deep, lapsed into a faint cough, and stumbled out of his breakneck momentum.
Shamspeare seized the opportunity before the man got the chance to kickstart again, gracing him with a placid smile. "My sincerest apologies, scholar of letters! I am as yet ungraced by your name."
"Ah. Yes, er―" He moved to extend one hand, but was caught in mid-motion by the colleague at his side, gesturing towards him with her arm. She tilted her head just slightly, in what was partially a charming mannerism and partially a way to conceal her forceful eye-rolling. "This is Soseki Natsume, Mr. Shamspeare. I'm afraid he's very passionate about his interests."
"No, no, no need to apologize! With passion would one shake the world, to paraphrase." He replied, expression still serene but feeling faintly, faintly prickled at having this withered half-pint try to scrape the paint off of his facade. Usually socialites were keen to gabble and grin, and theater people were generally two-faced enough to agree in public and save any shunning for the private sphere. He wasn't as experienced with academics, but the ones he'd encountered fell within three spheres: Conflict-averse enough to not go against his flow, disgusted enough to avoid him, or enthusiastic enough to present their own series of interpretations which he could obsequiously latch onto, deploying praise and flattery as he went.
Which, on the whole, suggested this little guy was knowledgeable enough to have all his facts lined up, immersed enough to have strong opinions on them, and enough of a social reject to not bother with decorum. Always slightly pitiful, seeing runts like this before they knew how the world worked; pitiful, but easy. He placed one hand to his chin, light and gentle. "Do go on."
"Ah." Having come prepared for a fight, the absence of one prompted him to stumble and counterbalance. He put one fist to his mouth, clearing his throat. "Yes, well, as I was saying, while the use of hendiadys does enhance the themes of muddled duality, their deployment for the maintenance of syllabaric rhythm―"
"Mr. Natsume, really." At his side, the woman's eyes narrowed. He'd pushed his luck; he could maybe get away with hendiadys, but syllabaric was a bridge too far. "Your field is Japanese literature, isn't it?"
"Well―" The wind flitted out of his sails for a moment, before puffing back in fresh force. "Certainly, yes, primarily, but my thesis was on―"
Her sharp voice cut through his protest. "There's really no need to insist you know better than the experts, you know." That seemed to slam him back down again, sheepishness and indignance struggling back and forth on his face.
Shamspeare's grin went ebullient, waving his hands in a calming motion. Having this unexpected cheer squad at his side was proving surprisingly handy; while she went for the blunt options, he was left open to act as mediator, pivoting down off of the conflict and coming up smelling like roses. "Don't worry, he needn't quell the flames of his heart! To thine own self be true, no?" He said, his tones breezy, light and unflappably placid.
And from his amassed arsenal, he slipped out a choice tidbit; a slight, unremarkable piece of trivia that he'd happened upon earlier in the night. "Being such a font of literary knowledge, I'm not surprised you're working on a novel yourself!"
The intruder's brows shot up, voice wavering for a moment. "Um―well―'That particular barb slid right between his ribs, as expected. Fingers tightening around the edges of his drink, his eyes zipped to the side. "―I...yes, well, yes, I am, but I haven't quite managed to find the inspiration lately..."
"Ah, I see." The shimmering ringlets of his hair shifted softly as he shook his head, beaming from above, giving off the air of a virtuous seraphim forgiving the small flaws of mortals. "I suppose there's some truth to the saying, eh? Those who can't do, teach."
For one wonderful split-second a flash of fury sparked in the man's eyes, before being dragged under by boiling undercurrents of shame. A slightly-scandalized, mostly-delighted titter of "Oh, William!" rose at his side as he followed up with a smiling "Merely a jest, of course, I'm sure you'll get back on track." to cover his bases. Caught sufficiently off-guard by that reminder of his failures, the guy was reduced to vaguely indignant, mostly morose mumbling, chugging whatever drink he had left. Shamspeare remained gregarious and grinning, revelling in the surge of prickling pride that snaked through his heart. Got you, you little fucker.
Usually he was long gone from any party before it reached this point, awash in this air of crusty melancholy. Half-empty wine glasses, stained tablecloths, stacked dishes and scattered cutlery deep into the evening, submerged and surrounded by emptiness. All the people disappearing to their cozy little homes and leaving you stuck with the cleanup of dozens of unique, individual, terrible remnants of their presence. Came from playing host, though. You accepted it. Just king for a day.
Pulling a garbage bag out to the dumpsters outside he overheard the faint sound of footsteps, pacing in rhythmic circles from somewhere nearby. Trailing them to their source he found the withered little nerd a few feet away from the entrance ― who, upon noticing that he'd noticed, cleared his throat. Shamspeare arched his eyebrows, adopting once again a harmless smile. "Mr. Natsume, was it?"
"Ah―yes. I wanted to, er―" His fingers ran several furrows through his hair, sending tendrils scattering in disarray, before extending it in a handshake. "I―um―I-I apologize. I was out of line, and though our opinions―" A brief pause, as he summoned the tremendous mental strength required to cram his thesis-length rants back down his throat. "―differ, I-I wouldn't like to damage the partnership between our two departments."
He scrutinized him for a few moments, eyes going up and down across him before fixing on his outstretched hand. Oh, that...that was interesting.
Confrontational but spineless? Overly conscientious? Easily peer-pressured, prone to shifting with the tides? Whatever the case, there was a lot that could be done with that. The notion of posturing and preening for a pack of dusty academics and doe-eyed teens while he found what he was searching for had seemed mind-numbingly dull, but here was an offer of free entertainment.
Without his expression betrayed an inch by the notions behind that smile, he grasped his hand warmly. "Not at all, Mr. Natsume, not at all! What's past is prologue; I think this is the beginning of something delightful."