Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

THEIR FLAG MEANS DEATH: THE HOUSE OF ATREUS RAISES ITS BANNER ON BROADWAY

April 4, 2010

According to Greek legend, the House of Atreus was regarded as a cursed family line, but Classic Stage Company’s trilogy An Oresteia, which opened this weekend at the Lyceum Theatre, is anything but a plague upon the Great White Way. Helmed by Obie-winning director Edward Teach, Anne Carson’s new translation of three classic accounts of Atreus’ family introduces audiences to some of the smaller but most crucial figureheads of the Greek mythological canon with rousing success. 

Historically, Aeschylus’ Oresteia has been staged as a trilogy, with Agamemnon, The Libation-Bearers, and The Eumenides being presented in a multi-part production. Any adaptation of The Oresteia is a mountainous undertaking not for the faint of heart. Fortunately, Teach is more than up to the challenge, with one caveat: An Oresteia, as translated by Carson, only features the first of Aeschylus’ works. The other two plays, Elektra and Orestes, come from Sophocles and Euripides, respectively. Staging works by three different playwrights as one production runs the risk of lacking cohesion, but in a bold artistic decision, Teach has chosen to embrace this prospect by encouraging audiences to see the trilogy out of order, as a means to “question our understanding of revenge, and on whom lies the blame for grievous acts which are both just and unjust.”

Teach is no stranger to the classics; he most recently staged Euripides’ Bacchae at La MaMa, and has a resume chock-full of Shakespeare and what seems at first glance to be every Greek playwright to ever grace an Athenean stage. Despite his comparative youth to other heralded directors who have tackled this canon in the last century, Teach himself conveys wisdom far beyond his years, through his deliberate (if somewhat unconventional) casting and proven understanding of thematic relevance. Teach’s directing style can best be described as “tactical”, with precision and layers of subtext behind each choice in staging, casting, and even spoken inflection. From An Oresteia , one gets the sense that Teach himself has been a legend in the American theatre for longer than his career suggests on paper — and if this is not an entirely accurate statement now, then certainly, in ten years time, it will be. Although this is his first Broadway undertaking, it is certain to not be his last.

Kicking off the trilogy, Agamemnon played its opening performance Saturday afternoon, with Elektra opening Saturday night, and Orestes on Sunday. In An Oresteia, this is the order the three plays appear in; however, on my initial viewing, I saw Orestes first, and I was so taken by the experience that I went back on my own dime to see it again, still in previews, beginning with Elektra. And then finally, this weekend, I saw it as “intended” — but I use that term loosely, because although Carson’s text is linear, Teach’s production is anything but. Unlike other critics invited during previews, I waited to write my review until I had seen all three “versions”, so to speak. And I am very glad I did.

Many of the actors — or dramatis personae, as the cast is labeled in the Playbill, no doubt a detail of Carson’s own design — take on new roles between each play. The full company (totaling only 13 due to doubled or even tripled roles, another stroke of tactical genius by Teach) operates as a cohesive unit, and in many ways it is impossible to identify one single breakout star. To those unfamiliar with the three plays, they are intentionally misleading in their titles: Agamemnon features the titular character in only one brief scene as the focus remains staunchly on his wife Klytaimestra (Charlotte de Berry) and the prophetic Kassandra (Grace O’Malley). While the character of Orestes (Nathaniel Flint) plays a larger role in the subsequent two plays, Elektra (Sadie Farrell) fills her role as namesake with heartbreaking grief, and she commands the stage with equally terrifying ferocity and unwavering, staunch pertinacity in Orestes as well. The women are at the focus of An Oresteia, and neither Carson nor Teach are keen on allowing the audience to forget it.

…However, it would be foolish to not also acknowledge the smaller players. Israel Hands, who in Agamemnon plays a Watchman, is granted the difficult task of introducing audiences to the story they have found themselves dropped into. He then steps into the shoes of Orestes’ “silent friend'' Pylades in Elektra for two brief scenes. However, Pylades does not stay silent for long, and indeed by the time I saw the third installment , Hands had transformed into a remarkably tender yet outspoken aide to the Greecian prince. Israel Hands is an actor whose career I’ve followed for years; he has built an impressive resume since his New York debut performance as Hector in The Public Theater’s production of Troilus and Cressida in 1995 — another Greek tragedy featuring Agamemnon. Pylades is a very different role from Hector, but it took until my second time watching Orestes to realize what felt so familiar. Pylades is not unlike the gentle Patroclus, lover of Achilles, who is murdered by Hector, unarmed, on the battlefield. It’s ironic that Hands portrayed such treachery, only to take on this role , the oft-assumed lover, best friend, and keeper of Orestes .

Though rare for someone not typically a leading man, one could say that Hands’ performance carries both Carson’s writing and Teach’s directing —

“They sure do talk about you a lot in this, Iz.” Edward doesn’t need to look up from the weathered newsprint in his hands to know the other man is standing behind him. It’s just what he does; the telltale fall of heavy footsteps has become as familiar to Edward over the years as the creak of the stage beneath boots equally as worn as the wood they walk on. Izzy never announces himself, and it infuriates him, as much as it assures him, that no greeting is necessary; Izzy Hands can move in and out of Edward’s space without fanfare, without drawing attention lest he wants to. Long fingers with painted black nails tap on the article clipping, and he holds it up for Izzy to see. Izzy doesn’t take it. He doesn’t have to look to know what it says. He’s read it as many times as Edward has.

Though rare for someone not typically a leading man, one could say that Hands’ performance carries both Carson’s writing and Teach’s directing over the hurdle that is the complexity of Greek mythos and the history of the Trojan war. Though Carson is known for her colloquialisms that make the ancient language more palatable to a modern audience, and Teach’s staging is visually preeminent, it is the cast themselves who rise to the occasion of delivering monologues and heightened text as if speaking in casual conversation down at the pub. The two complement each other: a director requires first-rate actors to pull off a feat like this, but it takes a masterful eye to cast the right people in the first place. This holds true for every truly excellent piece of theatre, but it is the opinion of this reviewer that come awards season, Tony voters would be foolish to not acknowledge Teach’s mammoth production in every possible category. It’s only a shame there is no award for best ensemble! In that regard, perhaps Teach will take credit for the excellent work of all his actors, but it should not come as a surprise if in ten year’s time, Farrell, O’Malley, de Berry, Flint and Hands all become common household names alongside Shakespearean legends Dame Judi Dench, Zoe Caldwell, Sir Ian McKellan and Sir Patrick Stewart within the classical theatre canon — though perhaps without the promise of knighthood. 

“I was your greatest asset,” Izzy replies, and Edward doesn’t question it. He simply yawns, and stretches, and sets the paper aside, reaching for his coffee mug with one hand and the bottle of Baileys tucked in the corner of his desk with the other. Izzy picks it up and hands it to him wordlessly. Edward rubs his temple and scratches at his beard, and Izzy stands stiff as a board at his side. “Are you ready for callbacks?” he asks finally, a slight urgency to his tone which suggests to Edward that time is getting away from him, even without checking the clock to confirm. Who needs a stage manager when you have Israel Hands to keep you on your toes? It’s a joke he’s made more than once in their careers, one which Izzy has always brushed off, alongside Edward’s more serious suggestion that he try his hand at directing, just once. Izzy always answers the same way: I’m an actor, Edward. It’s what I trained to do, it’s what I’m good at, and actor-directors tend to be rubbish anyway. 

Edward sighs and waits until he’s fixed his coffee, then takes a sip before he offers a response. “I guess, yeah.”

Izzy frowns. Edward can’t see him frown, but he knows he’s doing it, because that’s all Izzy seems to do these days. Edward doesn’t think he’s seen him smile in nearly a decade. Fair enough, he figures. He feels like he doesn’t have much to smile about these days either. Energized slightly by the introduction of caffeine and liquor to his otherwise sluggish system, Edward stands up, flexing his knee in its brace before walking back to his desk and beginning to sort through the stacks of papers left there untouched since the last day of auditions. He squints down at them, the words on the resume at the top of the closest pile all running together. Maybe it’s his eyes finally giving out on him, or the early morning bleariness, or the fact that he didn’t go home last night — he’d fallen asleep in his office chair, not that Izzy needs to know that — but a headache is starting to settle in, and the longer he looks at resumes and headshots and agent contact information written down on audition sheets, the more he wants to curl up under his desk, close his eyes, and forget all about the day ahead. 

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, Edward pushes the offending stack of papers into the wastebasket without a second glance, and turns back to Izzy. “Iz, remember when they did that production in Texas?”

Izzy shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the hesitation seeming false, as if he’s waiting to answer for Edward’s sake, not his own. “The Dallas Theater Center one?” He’s humoring him, but Edward doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, you didn’t stop talking about it for weeks.” 

There’s a spark in Edward’s eye, the briefest hint of a grin on his face. “I still wish you had gone to see it with me.”

Izzy shrugs, looking unbothered. “Yeah, well, I had auditions in the city, so.” He doesn’t need to explain himself. Edward heard the excuse plenty of times, and it never bothered him, because Izzy is dedicated to his craft, and it was a big audition weekend — he’d gotten a callback for the premiere of The Hunchback of Notre Dame at La Jolla, and Edward had been proud of him as he always was, but when he got off the plane and Izzy picked him up at LaGuardia, he’d forgotten entirely to ask how it went, too enraptured by what he’d just seen onstage to think or talk of anything else.

“Anyway, I just — that production rattled me. Like, to my core , man.” He grabs another headshot-and-resume combo and rips it in half, dropping it to the floor. “I want to make this good. I just… god , I mean, I’m fucking Edward Teach. I can direct a fucking play. I can direct a musical. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Of course you can,” Izzy assures him, loyal as ever, and Edward loves him for it, truly he does, but Izzy can be a fucking kiss-ass sometimes, and if Edward weren’t so shamefully reliant on that validation, he would’ve called him on it years ago. “You’ve been preparing for this for years, Edward. You know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, but it all feels WRONG !” Edward slams his mug down on the desk, coffee sloshing over the edge. He doesn’t move to clean it up, only standing there, staring at the spill staining the light wood. Izzy scoots behind him and pats the spot with a handful of tissues. Edward lets him. “I’m so damn uninspired,” he says, quieter now, and there’s a vulnerability in his voice he rarely shows to anyone, but Izzy’s known him forever, and has seen Edward at his worst, and Izzy, at least, will understand and not judge or question him for it. Edward is counting on that. “I need… something. Something fresh.” It’s a demand, not one Izzy can fulfill, but saying it out loud helps, Edward thinks. Maybe. 

“Is that why you’re reading Oresteia reviews?” Edward barely feels Izzy’s hand ghost over his waist as he slips around him again, discarding the damp tissues as he passes. Edward mouths a silent thanks , but Izzy doesn’t look up to notice. 

“Yeah, well, I was going to go back to the text, you know, and I found this clipping from the Times tucked in the cover.” He blinks, suddenly startled out of his fog by the memory, and offers a little smile to Izzy. “Hey, you g—”

“—I gave you that,” Izzy says at the same time, “after opening night. I remember.”

“Went out in the pouring rain to pick up a copy as soon as it came out, and showed up at my apartment drenched to the bone.”

“I didn’t know you kept it.”

“Right in here.” Edward tucks the clipping back inside the cover, and raises the book, tapping it lightly against his chest. Izzy stares down at the ground. “It’s just, I keep coming back to Orestes. Orestes and Pylades. Do you remember, Izzy? How Professor Hornigold made us read Victor Hugo’s text.”

A small smile pulls at Izzy’s lips. “Of course I do. ‘Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk’.”

“Yes. What was the quote? Something like, ‘Grantaire was an unaccepted Pylades’.”

“And something about fine marble.”

When Edward glances up again, Izzy is looking back at him. He averts his eyes quickly, but Edward catches it this time. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “we’ve grown up, haven’t we?”

“There’s nothing wrong with remembering the past.”

“No,” Edward agrees, “but I don’t want to live in it.”

The silence that fills the room is thick, and Edward’s mind wanders to everything and nothing at all. Izzy’s voice snaps him out of it a few moments later. “It’s time for callbacks, Edward. Are you ready?”

“What? Yeah. Yeah.” He finishes the coffee in one swallow, expression screwing as the not-quite-scalding-but-still-unpleasantly-hot liquid goes down his throat. He lifts the rest of the papers again, and this time, none of them are discarded. “You know, I wish you were my assistant director on this, Iz,” he says cheerily, as if the melancholy nostalgia he’s been stewing in for the last few minutes has vanished into thin air like the steamy vapor from his mug.

“Well, it’s unprofessional,” Izzy says, and there they are. Back in rhythm. Back to their routine. 

“Ah, who cares about that?” Edward chides, punching Izzy in the arm. “No one knows this story like you do.”

“Besides you.”

He grins. “Well yeah, besides me. That’s a given. Anyway, this is your show, Izzy. You’re ready for this.”

“Don’t patronize me, Edward.” There’s tension in Izzy’s voice, irritation creeping in under the skin, lacing his words with poison, and Edward side-steps away to move around in front and walk out of the office door ahead of him. 

“Whoa, take it easy, man, I’m not patronizing you! I’m being honest. This is your role.”

Izzy sneers. “A little presumptuous to offer me the contract before callbacks are done, isn’t it?”

“Well, I can do what I want,” Edward says, spreading his arms wide as he turns to face Izzy, taking a few backwards steps down the hall. “I am the director.”

And Izzy laughs, so Edward laughs, and everything is fine again. “Alright, you cocky bastard, come on.”

Edward Teach has always preferred holding auditions in his own theatre. The space is comfortable, familiar. The dim, warm lighting is easier on the eyes than the harsh fluorescents at Ripley-Grier, and it’s easier to whittle down the pool when actors have to commute to Connecticut just to attend an audition. It’s not as difficult to manage, either, when casting Shakespeare. But a big-budget musical, the first ever musical to be directed by the 2010 Tony winner, drew a significantly larger crowd. After a week of fielding calls from agents complaining about the travel time, he agreed to schedule audition appointments in Manhattan, with the stipulation that callbacks would be at the Queen Anne’s Playhouse. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, Edward jogs down to the first floor, Izzy trailing behind him. “Sorry I’m late, everyone!” He looks around, frowning — no one else is there, save for a lanky blond man in overalls. “Nathaniel, we good to go?”

“Aye, we are,” Nathaniel Buttons nods in acknowledgement. “Morning, Mister Teach, Mister Hands. Tables are set up,” he continues, gesturing to the small check-in station beside him, as well as to the door opening into the studio. “Lucius is just printing off the sides. And Frenchie—”

Edward frowns. “Frenchie, who’s Frenchie?”

“Oh, Faustin LaRue. Musical Director?” 

“Hello Lucius.” Edward raises a hand in greeting to the young man who had just rounded the corner, a stack of sheet music resting on his clipboard.

“Hey, Mister Teach.” Lucius sets the clipboard down. “ Israel.”

Izzy’s jaw twitches. “Mister Spriggs.”

Edward is still looking at Lucius. “He goes by Frenchie?”

“Oh, yeah. Think he thinks it’s funny, ‘cause he’s the only one of us who’s actually French.”

Edward chuckles. “Ha. Brilliant.”

“Hilarious,” Buttons agrees. 

“Okay,” snaps Izzy.

They fall silent.

“Well,” Lucius claps his hands together after a moment, “he’s warming up inside, so.”

“Got those sides ready?”

“Right here. Mister Hands , here’s a copy of ‘Stars’ if you want to—”

“I don’t need it.” Edward watches as Izzy brushes past Lucius, stalking into the studio. He slams the door behind him, and Edward doesn’t miss the look exchanged between the Stage Manager and Technical Director, the slight roll of eyes and shake of heads. He ignores it; it’s no secret that Izzy’s personality clashes with most of the staff, but they’re all professionals. They can handle it. 

Edward can hear muffled speaking from inside, the beginning of what sounds like an argument. “Should probably head in there, get going,” he sighs, indicating with a thumb over his shoulder. “Let him sing his song.”

“Yeah,” Lucius mutters to no one in particular, “then he can leave before he terrorizes the other actors.” Buttons nudges him, a hard elbow to the ribs that makes the younger man wince, but Edward gives no acknowledgement that he’s heard or seen either of them. He opens the door and steps into the studio. 

Izzy is singing scales at the bottom of his range, the low tone droning like lazy waves rolling out to sea. He doesn’t seem to notice that Edward’s come in, his back turned, shoulders rising and falling with long, slow breaths. 

“Hello, Mister Teach!” The man at the piano looks up, craning his neck around Izzy to wave at Edward as he approaches. Edward nods in greeting, dropping his own stack of papers on the table at the front of the room.

“Morning, Mister LaRue. Or is it Frenchie, now?” 

Frenchie looks utterly delighted. “Whichever you’d prefer.”

“Frenchie it is, then. Fitting.” He walks behind the table, tracing his fingers over the edge, and settles down into a folding metal chair. “You ready, Iz?”

“As ever,” Izzy says, snapping out of his warmup immediately. He turns on his heel and strides to the center of the room, sparing only a fleeting glance at Frenchie in a silent command to begin. 

“Wait,” Edward says, after he’s played about two notes. “Hold on. I need a different chair, my knee’s stiff as a board.” He stands, and Izzy turns to scamper out of the room. “It’s okay, I can…”

But he’s already gone.

“...Get it.”

Frenchie raises his head, giving him an odd look, and Edward just shrugs, meeting his puzzled expression with one that says, he’s always like this, I don’t really know what to do about it. For a man adamant on not being his assistant, Izzy certainly likes to act as if he is. Then again, he’s always been like that, for as long as Edward can remember: attentive, hovering, and protective in a way that’s often overbearing and has become less and less endearing the older they’ve gotten. Izzy and Buttons return with a piano bench from the larger studio. They carry it over together, and Izzy helps Edward prop his foot up, stretching out his leg. Edward doesn’t have to ask, and Izzy doesn’t say a word. He’s grateful, but he doesn’t say so. Izzy doesn’t do gratitude. 

Edward watches as he straightens, tugs down his vest and smoothes his shirt, limber fingers trailing over the dark fabric, and adjusts his tie. Without a word, Izzy returns to the center of the room, flicking his hand over his shoulder to Frenchie.

He begins again.

There, out in the darkness…

The thing about Izzy is that he’s not a musical theatre actor, not really. Oh, he has the chops for it — Edward recognized that from the day they met. But his star power lies in the dramas, the classics. He can deliver an impassioned speech like no one else, and perhaps, really, that’s why Edward has always considered Javert to be the perfect role for him. Ambitious, cunning, determined to a fault, and so tragically Shakespearean. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. There was a time Edward thought Caesar’s Brutus would be Izzy’s legendary role. But listening to him sing now in that powerful baritone, grizzled yet pure in timbre, it’s hard to imagine him doing anything but this. There’s a twinge of guilt in his chest at the thought that maybe he’s kept Izzy with him too long. Surely, Izzy knows that he can go elsewhere, that he’s not tied to the Playhouse — to Edward — forever. He has star power, if only the world could see it.

And if you fall as Lucifer fell, you fall in flame!

There’s a fire in Izzy’s eyes as he drops to one knee, caught in the tidal wave of emotion from the song, and Edward finds himself swept along with it. 

Lord let me find him
That I may see him
Safe behind bars
I will never rest
‘Til then
This I swear…

He practically shouts the line, and there’s a moment, suspended in time, where Izzy stands so solemn and so still, Edward almost forgets they’re in a rehearsal studio at all. Even Frenchie’s hands lift off the keys, waiting for the final breath, and then:

This I swear by the stars!

The piano crescendos, and Edward has never heard Izzy’s tone so clear, so focused. 

The song ends.

Edward doesn’t move.

“Thank you,” Izzy says, and exits swiftly. 

The next hour crawls by. Everyone is talented, Edward supposes (they must have been, or he wouldn’t have called them back in the first place), but he’s bored . He finds his mind wandering as three men come in one after another to sing “Bring Him Home”, and he sends the other candidates for Javert (who he’d only called back as a courtesy, really) away before they finish their first verse. More resumes end up in the garbage than not, and even Frenchie, as good-natured as he is, looks like he’s getting antsy playing the same 16 bars over and over. 

“I’m taking a ten,” Edward says, and abruptly stands, interrupting the Valjean candidate currently in the room. He looks at Frenchie in bewilderment, who only shrugs in response as Edward strides out.

The steps up to his office are daunting, and Edward feels a bit lightheaded as he realizes he hasn’t eaten since yesterday evening. He stumbles into the greenroom again, pouring himself a cup of day-old coffee and picking a stale bagel from a slightly torn paper bag. It’ll do. He sighs and leans against the door, ripping at the bread with his teeth and grimacing at the taste of bitter coffee.  

Closing his eyes, Edward listens to the voices from the hall carrying in through the thin walls. “Didn’t you go in for the chorus call?” one man asks. Ed turns his head slightly, peering out through the small window. He pulls a red cloth from his pocket and rubs at the glass with it, only managing to worsen the smudges. He tucks it away with a sigh and squints.

The man who spoke, broad shouldered and stocky, is watching his shorter companion as they look up at something on the wall. Though Edward can’t make out exactly what they’re fixated on, he doesn’t have to have a clear view to know what’s caught their eye. The portraits and article clippings displayed overhead make up the wall of fame — a tribute to the achievements of actors who have passed through the Playhouse at any point in their career, whose talents have been recognized locally, regionally, even nationally: BroadwayWorld awards, reviews, photos from red carpets. There’s even a display case for the Regional Tony Award that Queen Anne’s Playhouse won five years ago, though it hasn’t been cleaned or polished in some time. When they run a finger over the plexiglass, they convulse and then sneeze into their elbow, as if the small gesture has lifted a line of dust collected over months of neglect. It’s an impressive collection, rightfully paying homage to the excellence Edward Teach’s theatre strives for. It’s something he always used to be proud of, but now it just feels indulgent and self-righteous. It hasn’t even been updated in over a year, something he attributes to a lack of time and an overabundance of talent, but the truth is, he just can’t bring himself to care.

“I never thought I’d be here,” the person with their back turned says, still staring up at the wall. “This place is for real actors. Not chorus girls.” Edward grimaces at their words, as though they’d been tossed directly at him like darts. Serves him right for eavesdropping, he supposes, and he remembers when he used to say something similar: musical theatre isn’t real acting , he’d told someone, sometime, in an interview or five, why do you think Juilliard doesn’t do musicals? He’d been young and cocky, then, coming off his first Obie win for The Alcestiad at The Armory. He’d pissed some people off, of course, but even more had offered silent support. It was an unpopular opinion, certainly, but not an uncommon one — and apparently, still prevalent. When the Playhouse announced their upcoming season, someone on Twitter dug up one of those old interviews. Lucius had advised he stay off of social media for a while, and Edward couldn’t agree more. Sometimes he wishes he could take those words back, but he doesn’t even know where to begin. Meanwhile, the man who’d spoken first mumbles something that Edward can’t quite make out, and their attention pivots back to him, seeming startled. “Sorry, did you say something?” 

“Yeah,” he repeats, “I said I thought you just went in for the chorus call.”

“I did! Didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. But then why are you holding sheet music for ‘I Dreamed a Dream’?”

“I’m not—” They look down at the paper in their hands, frowning. “Hey!” They turn to Lucius, typing away at his laptop at the table. He looks up quizzically, eyes widening a fraction as they stalk over to him. “You gave me the wrong music.”

Lucius squints at his screen. “Bonifacia Jimenez, right?”

Their mouth presses into a firm line: “yeah.”

“Yeah, um, the director has you down for Fantine, so.”

Across the room, the other man raises his eyebrows, and Bonifacia’s incredulous look is met with one of mild amusement. “Okay,” they say, gripping the paper tight enough that it crunches in their fist slightly.

“Hey, well, look at that! You’re gonna be great! Fantine’s an amazing role, right?” Edward frowns as he listens to the man’s assurances to his friend, curiosity piqued. He tosses the half-eaten bagel in the trash can and leans his ear further against the door.

“I guess,” Bonifacia continues. “But I’m a chorus actor, Oluwande, it’s what I do. And I was honestly looking forward to being in the ensemble for this show. I was kinda hoping if I booked it, maybe I’d be one of the like, revolutionaries or something, you know?”

Oluwande’s lips twitch into a smile. “The Barricade Boys?” Edward stifles a quiet laugh of his own. Some things never change, it seems, even in twenty-five years. 

“Is that really what they’re called?”

“I dunno, I think everyone calls them that.”

“Okay. Whatever.” There’s a bit of amusement coloring the otherwise dismissive tone, as if they can’t help but smile again. “The point is, I’ve seen some of Teach’s work, he does a lot of gender… fuckery… in his casting, and I guess I just thought… maybe I’d get that chance, you know?” Edward stills, brow creasing as Bonifacia quickly adds, “it’s dumb.”

“It’s not d—”

“—but hey, Fantine’s great. I just don’t… play principals. Ever.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, she’s technically a featured —”

“Oh, ¡cállate, pendejo! ” They smack his arm, catching a glimpse of the sheet music he’s holding in the process. “Wait, is that the Bishop song?”

Oluwande looks down, surprised, having completely forgotten it was in his hand. “Yeah, looks like it.”

“ Heyyyy, look at you.” Bonifacia’s dour mood seems to improve as the focus shifts back to Oluwande instead of them. 

“Yeah, I thought I was like, a little young, but who knows?”

“Just the Bishop?”

“No, no, he gave me a bit of ‘Drink With Me’, too.” 

“Huh.”

Edward’s phone lights up in his hand.

Lucius Spriggs
we’re back, whenever ur ready

Pushing open the door, Edward strides out of the greenroom, walking between the two without giving either a second glance. He sweeps past Lucius and back into the studio in time to hear him say, “hey! You’re up, Jimenez.”  

By the time he’s settled back at the table, the door creaks open and Bonifacia slips into the room. Their hands are in the pockets of their jacket, and the first thing that Edward thinks, now that he’s able to get a good look at them, is that they look more like an Eponine than Fantine, from their dark hair, to the slight bags under their eyes, to the oversized trench coat hanging off their shoulders. They’d looked different at their first audition, he recalls, with their hair tucked up under a hat and wearing slacks and a blouse. Today it looks like they’ve just rolled out of bed. “Hey,” Bonifacia says awkwardly, seeming more than a little uncomfortable.

“Hey,” Edward echoes back. He leans forward slightly. “You up for this? I know you hadn’t anticipated this one, but I expect my actors to be able to think on the fly.”

“I know it,” they say, shifting from foot to foot. “I can do it.” Edward watches as they reach up, tucking their hair into a bun, and after a moment, they shrug off their coat, dropping it to the ground.

“Whenever you’re ready, then.” 

Bonifacia draws in a breath, shoulders tensing, and releases it with a shake of their arms. They look over their shoulder at Frenchie, who flashes a bright smile and a thumbs up, then drops into the somber opening notes.

“Just from the verse, skip the intro.”

I dreamed a dream in time gone by…

He listens with his eyes closed. Taking in a singer’s vocal strength and quality is easier without the distraction of what they’re doing with their body, and Bonifacia’s voice is raw but healthy — wrought with emotion carefully crafted without strain. 

He opens his eyes, more out of surprise than anything else, when they hit the crescendo:

As they turn your dreams to shame!

Edward glances down to scan their resume. Hadestown tour. Wicked tour. Mamma Mia tour. Rent tour. A Chorus Line tour. Cabaret tour. Pippin tour. Phantom tour. Phantom Broadway. West Side Story. In the Heights. Scarlet Pimpernel. The Pirate Queen. The list goes on. He flips it over. Bonifacia’s headshot is stapled to the back; it looks recent. It’s hard to tell, but their arms might be crossed, and there’s a smug smirk tugging at their lips.  

When he looks back up again, Bonifacia is clutching the front of their shirt, head tilted back toward the ceiling. 

A shuddering exhale fills the momentary silence, and Edward can’t tell if it came from them or from himself. 

Now life has killed the dream…
I dreamed

Only the sound of labored breathing is underscored by Frenchie plunking out the final notes, the resolution hanging suspended before he finally lifts his foot off the pedal. 

Edward opens his mouth to say — something, anything, but Bonifacia crouches down, picks up their coat, and is gone from the room before the words come to him.

Only a few moments pass before the door creaks open once again. “Wait for me? Cool. Um, hi. Oluwande Boodhari, I don’t know if you, um…” Edward raises his eyebrows, and Oluwande clears his throat. “Right. Yeah. Thank you, um, thanks for — okay. I’m good to start? Okay.” 

A smirk tugs at Edward’s lips. “Bishop,” he says, more to Frenchie than Oluwande himself. 

So Oluwande sings. It’s a short little passage, and he’s had very little time to prepare, but that’s just fine with Edward. And he sees that what he’d overheard in the hallway is true: Oluwande is a little young for the role. Then again, not everyone can be Colm fucking Wilkinson. It certainly shows in his voice, but his rich tone almost makes up for it, coupled with the lightness of the words, as if they’re dancing on his tongue — not quite nervous, but not settled either. But this would-be uncertainty reads as honest and almost conversational, whether that was his intention or not. What he seems to lack in life experience, Oluwande more than makes up for in expertise. This is the voice of a man who has been singing for a lifetime, who has worked and prepared and met each role with rigorous vocal athleticism. 

Edward closes his eyes, and listens only to his voice. 

By the witness of the martyrs
By the passion and the blood
I have raised you out of darkness
I have bought your soul for God

“Good, good.” Edward nods as he finishes. Oluwande is looking at him like he’s expecting some sort of response or feedback, but Edward feels miles away, a restlessness coming over him once more. “And ‘Drink With Me’?” he prods, moving on to the next piece. He’s good, he reminds himself, that’s why you’re letting him sing the next song.

Oluwande nods quickly with a breath of temporary relief, shuffling the papers in his hands. He looks down, eyes scanning over the lyrics once more, then tucks the sheet music into his back pocket. 

Drink with me to days gone by
Can it be you fear to die?

The tension in Edward’s creased brow releases, and he reaches for his phone.

Will the world remember you when you fall?
Could it be your death means nothing at all?

Edward Teach
Send me Bonifacia Jimenez again
And Ivan Nazir

Lucius Spriggs
aye aye

Edward Teach
and 3 copies of red and black

Lucius Spriggs
👍

Is your life just one more lie?

When Oluwande finishes, Edward is still on his phone. He glances up to see the younger man looking a bit disappointed that he wasn’t paying attention.

“I’ll — yeah. Thank you for your time.”

Edward blinks. “Hm? Oh. No. No, that was good, you were great, mate. Hang tight here for a sec, will you?” He looks at Oluwande’s resume. “You did the Hadestown tour too?”

Oluwande frowns. “Too? Oh, you mean — with Jim, yeah, yeah I did. We did chorus stuff together, actually—”

Edward nods absently, still distracted. “Great. Ah, perfect. There they are.” Bonifacia and the aforementioned Ivan trail into the room one after the other, Lucius following behind. Edward stands up. “Introductions, then, although it sounds like you two,” he points between Oluwande and Bonifacia, “already know each other, so this should be easy.” He takes the sheet music from Lucius. “Hope you know the music, or are prepared to sight-read. Ivan, Marius.” He passes out the sides as he speaks. “Oluwande, Grantaire. Bonifacia, Enjolras.” He steps back, sitting on the edge of the table. “Frenchie’s got you for the other parts. Have fun.”

Fun might not be the best word to describe the experience the three of them are about to have, but it is for Edward. This is what he loves about auditions — throwing something unexpected at actors and watching how they handle it, observing the way they tackle cold reads, seeing how well they take a note — it’s all great entertainment. And it’s nice to play, to work a little before even getting into the rehearsal room. And from their resumes, he figures these three are up to the challenge: experienced, competent actors who know how to audition, to collaborate, and to perform. 

Bonifacia’s lips are pursed into a frown, sparing a glance at Oluwande before shrugging. “ Lo que sea. Let’s go, guys. The time is near — so near, it’s stirring the blood in their veins…”

Edward props his chin up in his hand as he watches. It seems to take them a minute to adjust, to feel where the notes sit in their palate, which octave is most comfortable, but they settle into it. 

“We need a sign: to rally the people, to call them to arms, to bring them in line!”

They take a step back, and Edward observes carefully how they move seamlessly from the presentational rallying cry to, “ Marius, you’re late.”

“What’s wrong today?” Frenchie interjects from the piano, “ you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Oluwande claps a hand on Ivan’s shoulder: “Some wine, and say what’s going on!”

“A ghost, you say?” Ivan looks between the two, and Edward can tell he feels out of place, as if he’s just been thrown into something without quite understanding how he got there. Good, he thinks, that’s how Marius should feel, too. “ A ghost maybe,” Ivan continues, “she was just like a ghost to me. One minute there, then she was gone.”

Oluwande nudges Bonifacia in the arm. “I am agog! I am aghast! Is Marius in love at last?” The corner of their lips twitches upward, but they look down, shaking their head as if to stifle the smile before it can spread. “I’ve never heard him ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’!” 

“Nice,” Edward mumbles under his breath, leaning in. 

“You—” he grips Bonifacia’s shoulders with a little laugh, “ talk of battles to be won, and here he comes like Don Ju-an!” This time, Edward can’t help but laugh, though he covers his mouth quickly. The humorously intentional mispronunciation of Juan is achingly familiar. Oluwande spins on his heel to face Ivan. “It is better than an o-per-a-a-a-a-aaaaa!” He bows deeply.

“It is time for us all to decide who we are,” Bonifacia interrupts, “do we fight for the right to a night at the opera now?” Yes… yes, Edward silently urges them on, come on, get the words out, that’s it. “Have you asked yourselves what’s the price you might pay? Is it simply a game for rich, young boys to play? The colors of the world are changing day by day!”

Edward thinks this might be the best song in the show. 

“Had you been there tonight, you might know how it feels…”

Ivan — who had, to his credit, delivered a soulful rendition of “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” earlier in the day — is not Edward’s first choice for Marius. He’s a little older than Marius ought to be, with a rough edge and intensity that lends itself more to Bahorel or Thenardier’s gang than the romantic lead. But Edward has never believed in typecasting… except when it comes to Izzy, but Izzy is different from the others. Izzy is an exceptional actor, but he has a type, and he plays it well. Better than well. But Edward’s learned how to push even Izzy’s limits, mold him into exactly who he needs him to be for the role he wants. Some actors have roles they want to play. Others will take anything they can get their hands on — the desperate, starving artist types just scrounging for the next gig that’ll lead to their big break. And then there’s Israel Hands: who never takes a role that Edward doesn’t approve of, who never goes into an audition without a coaching session with him. Edward’s word is God to Izzy, and for the life of him, Edward doesn’t understand why.

“And what was right seems wrong…”

Anyway, Ivan’s not really a Marius-type, but none of them fit, really.

“And what was wrong seems right!”

That’s what makes it interesting.

“Red—” Oluwande chimes in, tossing an arm over Ivan’s shoulders.

“—I feel my soul on fire!”

“Black—”

“—My world if she’s not there!”

“Red—”

“—The color of desire!”

“Black—”

“—The color of despair!”

“ Marius! ” Bonifacia snaps, and Edward actually looks up, startled. He can see how they’ve had such a strong career as an ensemblist; they have an uncanny ability to blend into the background and go unseen. But their stage presence is strong, commanding the room from the moment they open their mouth. Their dramatic timing is precise, pulling focus only at crucial moments; Edward’s eyes narrow in on them with sharp intention. “You’re no longer a child — I do not doubt you mean it well. But now, there is a higher call! Who cares about your lonely soul? We strive toward a larger goal. Our little lives don’t count at all!”

God bless them for being able to sight-read, Edward thinks, as the trio finishes in harmony:

Red - the blood of angry men!
Black - the dark of ages past!
Red - a world about to dawn!
Black - the night that ends at last!

“Skip to the end!” he calls out, hopping off the table. “ ‘General Lamarque is dead!’ ” 

Grinding their jaw, Bonifacia juts their chin out, and stalks over to Edward, until they’re far closer than anyone’s ever dared get in an audition, and though they’re considerably shorter than him, there’s something intimidating about the way they fearlessly encroach on his personal space. They rest a hand on his arm, as if in that moment, Edward himself is little Gavroche. Their voice is softer than before, as they echo, “Lamarque is dead… Lamarque, his death is the hour of fate! The people’s man! His death is the sign we await!” They pivot on their heel away from Edward, tucking their sheet music away, and rush this time to Frenchie, who looks up as they lean over his shoulder. “On his funeral day, they will honor his name with the light of rebellion ablaze in their eyes. From their candles of grief we will kindle our flame — on the tomb of Lamarque shall our barricade rise! The time is near!” One hand clasps on Ivan’s shoulder, “let us welcome it gladly with courage and cheer!” The other on Oluwande’s, “let us take to the streets with no doubt in our hearts, but a jubilant shout: they will come one and all—” Striding straight downstage, Bonifacia punches their fist into their hand, “they will come when we call!”

For a second, it seems like Bonifacia might be running on so much adrenaline that they’ll barrel straight through into “Do You Hear the People Sing” if no one stops them. And there’s a part of Edward that holds his breath, almost hoping they do. But with a roll of the keys under nimble fingers, Frenchie plays the final chord, and the song ends. The men both look out of breath, Ivan smirking with his arms crossed, and Oluwande grinning. He could just be happy with the song, and in Edward’s opinion, he should be. It went well. But his eyes are fixed on Bonifacia, still breathing heavily, passing a hand over their brow, and Edward surmises that his attention may not be entirely focused on his own performance.

“Alright, I think that’s all I need. Ivan, stick around outside for a bit, I’ll get back to you. Thanks for stepping in. Oluwande, you’re dismissed. Bonifacia—” They stop, already halfway out the door, a step ahead of Oluwande. “Just a sec, yeah?”

They turn back, exchanging a brief look with Oluwande, who squeezes their arm as they pass by him. He watches for a second longer, then follows Ivan out of the studio. Edward waits for the door to close, then focuses his attention on Bonifacia. “I was impressed with how you stepped up. That’s a bigger role than you usually play.”

Bonifacia folds their arms over their chest. “I also don’t back down from a challenge.”

Edward chuckles. “I can see that.” He eases himself once more into a sitting position on the table, scooting back far enough to rest his leg up on the surface as well. “I appreciate you jumping in. It was a big help. Needed someone to sing the role, and there you were.”

He watches as Bonifacia’s jaw clenches, and bites back a grin at their reaction. I thought so. “Glad I could help,” they say, sounding not very glad at all. “Is that all, or—?”

“You have stage combat experience, I saw?” Edward grabs their resume from the pile, eyes scanning down the page. “You were Fight Captain for what, Pirate Queen?”  

Bonifacia nods, expression unreadable. “ Sí . And West Side Story , and I was with the Newsies tour as the Assistant Fight Director for a while.” 

“Well, that’s all very cool.” Edward could laugh at the look they give him, incredulous and skeptical all at once, with an eyebrow raised beneath unevenly chopped bangs. “Just one more question, then.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you be comfortable playing a role like that?” 

He can almost see the gears turning in their head, trying to parse not just the meaning of his question, but the intention. Bonifacia is clever, Edward decides; they don’t miss a trick, and they’re not easily bullshitted. They hesitate just long enough that Edward feels a bit hot under the collar, before they finally respond, “one of the Barr… revolutionaries? ”

Running his fingers through his beard thoughtfully, Edward leans forward. “Or Enjolras.” 

Bonifacia’s hands still, dropping to their sides from where they’d been picking at the lapels of their coat. “Enjolras,” they repeat, slowly. Edward nods. “...Yeah. Yeah, I’d be — super comfortable with that.” 

“Alright!” He nods decidedly. “Good. Well, I think that’s all, then.”

“Great. Thanks. Thank you.” They take a couple of steps backward, hands slipping into their coat pockets. “Yeah. I’m gonna — thanks.” Edward watches as Bonifacia ducks out of the room, leaving him with just Frenchie, who looks over at him from the piano.

“Should we—” Edward stares at him. “Yep. Taking a break. Got it.” With a little salute, he scrambles to his feet and hurries out after Bonifacia.  

Alone finally, Edward flops over backwards on the table and closes his eyes.

Lucius is good at his job. Columbia doesn’t accept just anyone, after all, especially when they come in with nothing but a BA in Visual Art from UNC Asheville and a handful of small-scale productions under their belt. He’s learned a lot in the last three years, and he tells himself that that’s what got him here: full-time employment at one of the country’s most renowned regional houses. He’s quite certain it’s not in his job description to be an audition monitor, but when Edward fucking Teach asks for a favor — especially with this kind of money on the table — you don’t say no.  

He also can’t really complain, because it means getting a chance to chat up the box office manager. 

And speak of the devil…

“Check-in is just down the hall, here… there were signs on the doors, but — okay. Yeah. Right here.” 

Lucius looks up from his computer. “Hey, Pete.”

“Hi, Lucius.” Pete clears his throat, stepping to the side to reveal the person he’d been speaking to: an older man, clean-shaven, wavy blond hair, dressed in a baby blue suit. Lucius looks him up and down in silence for a minute. “He wandered into the box office not knowing where to go,” Pete explains, and Lucius smiles at him before turning his attention to the other man.

“Right. There was definitely a sign on the door, but—”

“Was there?” The man frowns, looking around, “didn’t see one.”

“Yeah, yep, definitely a sign, put it there myself.”

“Hm.”

“…Yeeeep. Anyway, let’s get you checked in, then.” He pulls up a spreadsheet. “Name?”

“Bonnet, Stede,” the man says.

Lucius looks. “I don’t have you here.”

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I was doing last name, first name. It’s Stede Bonnet. Stede’s an uncommon name, I know—”

“No, no, I got that, yeah,” Lucius says, typing Stede Bonnet into the search field anyway, just to be sure. “Just definitely not on my list.”

Stede Bonnet is starting to look a little sweaty. Why he would wear a full suit to a callback in 70 degree Connecticut weather is a mystery. “Well, I emailed earlier,” he offers, as if that explains anything.

“Oh, yeah, we don’t…” Lucius purses his lips. This is definitely not what he’s paid to do. “Who’s your agent? I can see if we heard from them,” he offers, even though he really can’t, considering he doesn’t know the first thing about dealing with agents. 

Stede shifts his weight, giving Lucius the distinct impression of an insect squirming under a microscope as both he and Pete look to him expectantly. “I don’t have an agent,” he finally offers.

Oh thank god. Not that that helps their current situation, but it’s one less phone call Lucius will have to make, so that’s something. Still, this man is probably the only actor here without one, so that’s… troubling. “You don’t… Do you have an appointment?” 

“No, I just… Emailed earlier, like I said. Sorry. I know, it’s probably bad form to show up at an audition without an appointment but I saw the casting call shared in a Facebook group, and…”

Pete, still hovering by the corner of the table, looks over at him, and Lucius gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes as Stede rambles, though his expression is softened considerably in the presence of the former. “He seems crazy, right?” Pete mouths, and Lucius snorts, offering the slightest nod of agreement. Pete drums his fingers on Lucius’s arm, which he takes to mean, “this was fun, but he’s your problem now,” and meanders off down the hall. 

Thanks Pete, very helpful, that. 

Stede is still standing there, though, looking at him expectantly, and Lucius pinches the bridge of his nose, drawing in a few calming breaths, and attempts to divert his attention back to work. “Yeah, um, so,” he says, not having a clue where to even begin with this. “Auditions are over. We’re doing callbacks right now, so if you didn’t… you know… audition…”

“—Mister Teach isn’t going to see you.” Lucius jumps in his seat, slowly looking over his shoulder with a grimace at the source of the voice behind him. Izzy seems to have appeared out of nowhere, and Lucius has to wonder how long he’s been standing there listening. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to him, jaw clenched in a tight frown directed solely at Stede. “No need to waste our time.”

It’s sad, in a sort of depressed, middle-aged man, pathetic sort of way, how Stede’s expression crumples, and Lucius pivots in his chair to look up at Izzy with a what the hell, man? kind of gesture. “Yeah, well, it’s not really your time that’s being wasted, is it? Since you finished your callback hours ago, I’m not even sure why you’re still here, so.” Izzy ignores him, which doesn’t come as a surprise, but he still stands there over him like the grim reaper, unmoving. Lucius rolls his eyes with mostly feigned, unbothered exasperation, and flashes Stede a sympathetic, thin-lipped smile. “He is right though, unfortunately. It’s probably not gonna happen, man. Sorry.”

To his credit, Stede does an impressive job at masking the way his shoulders sag in crestfallen defeat — maybe he really is a good actor — but Lucius is quick and observant, so he catches it before he manages to pull himself together again, offering a slight nod and a stupid little sad smile. “I understand,” he says, forced cheer in his voice. “You all are professionals, running a professional company. I wouldn’t dream of undermining that. I wish you all the best of luck — or should I say, break a leg?” He winks, and Lucius catches himself genuinely smiling, stifling a small laugh. 

“Hey, auditions for the rest of the season are later in the summer, so keep an eye out, alright?”

Stede gives a little wave and turns to go. At the same time, the studio door opens and a young woman slips out — one of the Cosettes, Lucius thinks, judging by the shrill soprano voice he’d heard faintly from inside — followed by Frenchie, his Hydro Flask strap hooked over his right index finger. “Just taking a quick five while I refill my water,” he says, looking between the assembled group. His eye catches on Stede, and he reaches out, tapping him on the arm before he can go too far. “Hey — sorry, you look really familiar, have I seen you in something?” 

“He was just leaving,” Izzy interjects. Everyone ignores him. 

“Oh,” Stede says, sounding flustered, “maybe? Probably not.” He shakes his head. “He’s right, I was just…”

“We haven’t seen you today, right?”

Lucius shakes his head, saving him the embarrassment of answering himself. “He doesn’t have an appointment,” he explains as kindly as he can.

Frenchie sets his water bottle down on the table. “Can I see your resume?” Stede looks confused for a moment, then reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a folded up piece of paper, which he passes to Frenchie sheepishly. Frenchie smooths out the crumpled edges, glancing it over, and Lucius catches Izzy craning his neck to see as well. He stands up, blocking his view and looking over Frenchie’s shoulder. The resume is… unimpressive. It’s not even a theatrical resume, and Lucius doesn’t bother to read the bullet points next to “Real Estate Agency Office Assistant”. But there must be something there that catches Frenchie’s eye, because he looks up, snapping his fingers, and grins at Stede. “You played Father in Children of Eden at Bridgeport Rep!”

Stede’s eyes light up at the recognition, and Lucius actually exchanges a what the fuck? look with Izzy that he immediately regrets. “Oh! Yes! I did!”

Frenchie gives him a good-natured punch in the arm, which Stede immediately rubs with a small wince. “I played guitar in the pit for that show! You were great!”

Stede looks like he might just burst with pride. “Really? You thought so?”

“Yeah, man!” He turns to Lucius and Izzy, gesturing with his thumb at Stede. “This guy. What a star.”

Huh. Lucius chuckles a little as Izzy’s nostrils flare in annoyance and he finally stalks off down the hall. Who would’ve thought?

The door opens again, and this time it’s Edward whose head pokes out. He looks at Frenchie impatiently. “What’s the delay, man?” His eyes fall on Stede, brows drawing together. It’s like Lucius can see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out what’s going on, and finally he just says, “who are you?”

“Stede Bonnet,” he says, clearly as confused as Edward, and Lucius doesn’t blame him. He’s confused too, honestly. 

“The, uh, he came in to audition, but—”

“He played Father in Children of Eden,” Frenchie interrupts.

Edward glances at Stede. “At the Kennedy Center?” 

“Bridgeport Rep,” Stede says. 

“In Barbados?”

“That’s Bridgetown.” Frenchie’s nose scrunches up and he shakes his head. “Fairfield County.” 

Lucius clears his throat. “He came in to audition,” he explains, clasping his hands together tightly. “Not realizing we were doing callbacks already.”

“I see.” Edward turns his attention to Stede more fully. “Well, sorry mate, but you heard him. You missed auditions. Tough break, but that’s how these things go.”

Lucius winces, a bit of sympathy on Stede’s behalf, and slips around the table, patting him on the back. “Better luck next time, hm?”

To the side, Frenchie tugs on Edward’s sleeve. “He has the range,” he says in a somewhat hushed voice that Lucius can only describe as a stage whisper — therefore not a very effective one. There’s no way Stede can’t hear, but if he does, he’s not giving any acknowledgement. Still, Lucius stays in place, not yet making a move to walk him out. He’s poised, waiting, curious to see where this will go. 

“For what?” Edward whispers back, and at least it seems like he’s trying to not be heard, but it’s still not working very well.

“Valjean. You’ve only seen one you liked so far. Maybe give him a chance?”

Lucius catches Frenchie’s eye as he glances over at him, and raises his eyebrows expectantly. Frenchie gives him a thumbs up behind Edward’s back, and he has to try not to laugh. But it also looks like Stede is standing up a little straighter, which means he’s most definitely heard their whispered little conversation, and is keenly aware how close he is to getting exactly what he wants.

Somewhere along the way, Lucius realizes suddenly, he started rooting for him.

“Let’s see your resume, then, yeah?” Edward turns to Stede suddenly, who stiffens, and then nods. He fumbles with his pockets for a moment before seeming to remember that Frenchie still has it, and is now holding it out to him expectantly. With a nervous chuckle, he takes it and passes it to Edward.

They all wait.

Then Edward laughs. 

Stede looks utterly mortified, and so does Lucius, on his behalf. He cringes inwardly; Edward Teach may be the strangest director he’s ever worked with, and every minute spent in this audition process is making him more and more nervous about being in a rehearsal room with him. But the laughter, though it catches them all off-guard, doesn’t seem malicious, which is probably what makes it so weird in the first place. 

“Do you have a headshot?”

Stede beams. “Yes! Well, no. Yes. I do, but not with me, printed. I can text you a picture?” His cheeks redden and he puts his face in his hands, peeking out between his fingers. “I’m sorry.”

The laughter ceases, but Edward is still grinning. He claps a hand on Stede’s shoulder, pulling him away from Lucius. “Okay,” he says, nodding, “come on in.”

Stede Bonnet is not an actor. 

Edward has been in this business a long time; he can read people like a book. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he knows from the moment someone walks into his audition room, before they’ve opened their mouth and said a single word or sung a single note, whether they’re going to be in his show or not. 

This, right now, is the one percent.

Stede’s resume, which is filled with useless information about what kind of office supplies he’s adept at using, and how many high-stakes clients he’s assisted (whatever the fuck that means), has three points of interest:

1. He did, in fact, play Father in Children of Eden at Bridgeport Repertory Theatre two years ago. 
2. He also was in the ensemble of five other musicals over the last few years, at the same community theatre.
3. Under his cramped little skills section, he’s indicated that he’s a “tenor vocalist” (without indicating an actual range), “capable of learning choreography” (impressively vague), and has “experience as a performer in various acting and singing roles”. 

None of this is particularly useful to Edward in terms of gauging Stede’s competence, despite Frenchie determinedly vouching for him. And Edward does trust Frenchie, who has proven himself today alone to be a talented musician with a keen ear. Also, he’s right — Edward really hasn’t been impressed with any of the Valjeans they’ve seen today. They were all talented, sure, but they lacked the ability to grab his attention right from the start.

Stede Bonnet had somehow managed to do that before even getting into the room.

“Relax,” Edward says, because Stede is standing there stiff and awkward, and it’s really killing the vibe. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ed.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Ed. I’m Stede,” he replies unnecessarily. Edward taps the resume with one finger and Stede looks sheepish. “Right. You — you know that. Obviously.” He bites his lip. “I did bring sheet music with me, don’t you worry! I was going to sing ‘The Hardest Part of Love’. Do you want to hear that?”

Edward considers for a minute, then shrugs, situating himself more comfortably on the edge of the table. “Nah, man. You come highly recommended,” he assures him with a nod to Frenchie, “so we can skip the Children of Eden. Never was a big fan of Stephen Schwartz. Wicked ? Blegh. Totally overrated.”

Stede gapes at him. “But Wicked’ s a classic!”

“And it lost to Avenue Q for a reason.” 

“ Avenue Q ’s a little too vulgar for my tastes.” 

“ Pippin , though—”

“Oh, Pippin. I love Pippin .”

“Me too!”

They both laugh quietly. Then Edward clears his throat, and says, “anyway, let’s hear some Valjean. Do you know ‘Bring Him Home’?” In some ways, it’s a challenge, like he gave the trio earlier. Throw something at him he wasn’t expecting to sing, see how he handles it. It might be a bit cruel for someone so inexperienced, and yet Edward has a hunch that he’ll be just fine. 

He’s proven right when Stede nods vigorously. “Oh yes. Absolutely. I’ve loved Les Mis my whole life. My kids have grown up hearing the records.”

“Good.” He passes a copy of the music to Stede with an assuring, “just in case,” and nods to Frenchie to start.

Edward isn’t sure what he expected. His intuition was right, as it always is: Stede has no sense of how to hold himself on stage. His feet wander, his fists clench and unclench nervously, and he acts too much with his arms. His eyes don’t focus in one spot, or even look with intention at all, and the excellent posture that Edward had observed even in the hallway outside makes him look stiff and rigid alone under the fluorescents. 

But Stede also has a voice. And maybe that’s on Edward for not trusting it, but “tenor vocalist” suits him just fine. He sings in a soft croon, a gentle warble that trembles in all the right places and lingers on every lyric as if they’re the words of God, and suddenly it doesn’t matter to Edward if the dips in inflection are from nerves or not. The more confident Stede becomes, the easier it is for him to settle into it. Edward’s seen that before. He recognizes when discomfort turns a corner and becomes something else entirely.

While still uncertain about everything else, Edward does know one thing: Stede Bonnet loves to sing. He can hear it in his voice, how his tone fills out when he hits a note just right and the way his chest swells with fleeting confidence. He can see it in his eyes, the moment something just clicks, and suddenly he’s staring at something beyond Edward’s right ear, laser-focused and purposeful:

The summers die one by one
How soon they fly on and on

Stede’s voice isn’t exactly musical theatre — he has the timbre of a pop star who’s had classical vocal training but lacks the lung power for Broadway; of course, he’s none of those things either, or so Edward can only assume, but it works , and that’s what matters. He’s soulful, and his expression is soft and gentle, kind tenderness in his eyes that is befitting for Valjean, but there’s something else too, something ferocious and wrought with an emotion Edward can’t put a name to. Stede’s voice has no strain, even as he pushes, driving forward past the bridge. He even puts the fucking emphasis on “let him be”, for crying out loud —

If I die
Let me die!

Oh my fucking god, Edward thinks, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles pale. Where the fuck has this guy been hiding?

Let him live
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring… him…

He breathes. Edward doesn’t.

Home

Frenchie is the one to break the silence after a second, or a minute, or an hour. “I told you he was good.” Edward ignores him, leaning forward intently. 

“Stede,” he says, “where’d you learn to sing?”

“Oh.” Stede looks embarrassed, scuffing his foot on the ground. “I sort of… taught myself? I mean, I was always singing as a boy, and I was in an acapella group in college for a couple of years, but that was pretty informal, so…”

Self-taught? A god damn acapella group? The man is fucking fascinating. Shows up utterly unprepared at a callback he wasn’t invited to, for a professional show at an Equity theatre, with nothing but his day job resume and some sheet music.

“And why this show? I mean, this audition, at this theatre, for Les Mis? ” 

Stede looks thoughtful, and Edward notes the way his brow furrows, like he’s taking the question so damn seriously, even though all he’s doing is asking about a musical. “It’s one of my favorite shows. I just… saw it was happening, and was like, ‘I want to be part of that!’” He looks embarrassed. “That’s probably stupid.” 

“Nah,” Edward says, because it’s really, really not. It must be nice to get excited over something. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt that way. “Not stupid at all.” He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “This is my first musical, did you know that? We usually do Shakespeare, and the Greek classics, and… fucking, Chekov and Ibsen and shit and like, there’s only so many fucking ways you can do the god damn Scottish play before it’s like, okay, we fucking get it. I’ve just…” he exhales loudly, “felt really trapped in the… monotony, you know?”

Stede stands up a little straighter, curiosity piqued. “Yes… yes, I think I understand that feeling.” He shakes his head. “I’d give anything to just… do theatre, all the time. Like you all do. Doesn’t matter what it is. I’ve never done Shakespeare before, but I’d give it a go.”

Edward scratches at his beard thoughtfully, looking Stede up and down for a minute before deciding, “I think you’d make an excellent Prospero.” 

Stede looks a little bewildered at that, and Edward thinks maybe he doesn’t know The Tempest , but then he notices that his cheeks have reddened in embarrassment, a reaction to the praise, and he says, “I’ve always liked stories set at sea.”

Edward laughs, shaking his head. “Well, there’s none of that in Les Mis, I’m afraid.” 

“Too bad, really,” Stede jests, “might be fun to see Les Mis with pirates.”

Edward is inclined to agree.

He texts Izzy, and he comes into the studio holding music for “The Confrontation”, stopping short just inside the doorway when his eyes land on Stede. His jaw twitches the way it does when he wants to say something but is choosing to bite his tongue. Sometimes Edward wishes he’d just spit it out instead of keeping everything so bottled up, but Izzy works through his issues in his own way, and far be it from Edward to push him about it. 

He wasn’t there in the hallway when Stede first arrived, so he doesn’t know that the pair of them have already met, and he’s smiling with rare, untempered glee as he introduces them. “Stede, meet Israel Hands. He’s going to be playing Javert.” Edward doesn’t miss the way Izzy’s chest puffs up with pride, followed by the slight sag of relief in his shoulders. As if there was ever any question that Edward was going to cast him. He’s unpredictable, yes, but not insane. He’d have to be, to not let things work out this way. “Iz, this is Stede Bonnet.”

“We’ve met,” Izzy mutters, more like a snarl that grates at the back of his throat, and it’s not exactly true, but Edward doesn’t know that either. He doesn’t miss the barbs in his voice, but Izzy’s already been prickly. He doesn’t think much of it, really.

“He just sang a lovely rendition of ‘Bring Him Home’ for me,” Edward continues, “so I’d like you guys to sing together now, yeah?”

This time, it’s very clear that Izzy wants to protest, but he’s a professional, so he draws himself up stiffly. “Whatever you want,” which is the right answer, and he looks away at Edward’s nod of acknowledgement. “Try to keep up, Mister Bonnet.” He walks past Stede, thrusting sheet music into his hands as he passes. 

“I know you’re both familiar with the song,” Edward says, which is perhaps an understatement for Izzy and possibly a stretch for Stede, but he ignores any protests that might fall from either’s lips. “So let’s set the scene. Stede, Fantine’s just died in your arms. You already revealed that you’re Jean Valjean, and now Izzy, you’ve come to collect your prisoner. Whenever you’re ready.”

The first words are out of Izzy’s mouth practically before Edward’s done speaking. “Valjean, at last, we see each other plain. Monsieur le Maire, you’ll wear a different chain.”  

“Before you say another word, Javert, before you chain me up like a slave again, listen to me! There is something I must do.”

It’s obvious that Stede is struggling to keep up with the overlapping lyrics, slipping in and out and dropping words to catch up. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Izzy either, who seems to be fueled by the show of weakness (incompetency, even, if Edward is being honest) to push more instead of backing off to let him find his footing. But Stede doesn’t crack under the pressure either, and though he’s too busy trying to hit all the notes to even attempt to act, Edward is on the edge of his seat. It’s electrifying the way they dance around each other. It reminds Edward of a proper duel, with advances and retreats, and he files that idea away for later. Even if Izzy has the upper hand: skill, experience, knowledge — Stede isn’t backing down. They’re not listening to each other vocally at all, voices clashing in moments of dissonance, and Stede is practically shouting to be heard over Izzy, whose booming baritone fills out the acoustics of the room all on its own. 

It’s not even good . They look like two teenagers trying to one-up each other at the school talent show, and by his own standards, he should have cut them off already. But instead, he’s fascinated with how they play off each other. Stede has managed to let go of all the tension he was previously carrying, while Izzy, normally so composed, vaguely resembles a chihuahua yapping at Stede’s heels, angry and scathing as he spits the words out with uncontained malice. It’s raw, untapped talent: they feel like Valjean and Javert.

And Edward loves it.

Izzy growls the final “ I swear to you, I will be there” at a very solemn Stede, whose nose twitches but otherwise offers no acknowledgement of the animosity directed toward him. Izzy really is a good actor; Edward fully believes that he’s held a grudge against the other for eight-odd years.

Edward’s on his feet with enthusiastic applause the moment quiet falls over the room, and Izzy gives him a disgruntled and confused look, because people don’t applaud after auditions , but Stede looks utterly chuffed, jutting out his chin and flushing at the praise. 

“Really good,” Edward says, and he means it. “Lot of work to do, wonder if I might give you some notes, actually—”

He catches Izzy out of the corner of his eye making for the door, and Edward hasn’t actually excused him yet, but he lets him go because, well, it’s just not worth arguing. Letting out a little sigh of defeat, he drops his arms to his sides, and turns back to Stede with a shrug, as if to say, what can you do?

Stede is actually smiling at him though, and it’s very endearing how earnest he looks. A moment passes before Edward realizes he’s smiling too, and really needs to say something. He clears his throat. “Well, uh, maybe not,” he starts, because what the fuck is he going to coach Stede on if Izzy isn’t here to sing Javert?

“It’s alright,” Stede says, and god help him, he actually looks ashamed , if Edward had to put a name to the expression on his face as the smile falls away. “Honestly, I really am sorry about all the… miscommunication, and for my unprofessionalism. You all are doing marvelous work, and I made a complete ass of myself.” Edward blinks at him and doesn’t reply. “It was very kind of you to give me the opportunity anyway,” Stede continues, and suddenly he wonders if he was supposed to say something there, to reassure him that he did not, in fact, make an ass of himself. But Stede is still talking: “I know I don’t stand a chance, but thank you for allowing me to sing these songs that I love.”

Edward stands there, stupefied by his words. It’s as if Stede has just bared his soul to him, and Edward has no idea how to react. He needs to though, and he needs to act fast , or else Stede is going to turn and walk out of the room just like Izzy did, and then he’s going to be the asshole. 

He simply cannot have that. And more to the point, he cannot let Stede leave here without, at least, letting him know that he truly thought he was wonderful, and that allowing him to sing wasn’t out of pity. Edward Teach doesn’t do pity. He doesn’t give anyone the time of day who doesn’t deserve it, and sometimes he doesn’t even give people the time of day who probably do deserve it, simply because he’s not feeling it.

The other guy he was considering for Valjean was honestly pretty good, and a less fickle man probably would be more than content casting him. Edward’s even worked with him before, Keola “Fang” Ioane — he knows he’s good. A better actor, a more polished singer even, than Stede. Does he “deserve” it more? Some might say so, but Edward’s always found that attitude to be petty and juvenile. It reminds him of being in college, how bent out of shape upperclassmen would get over a random freshman “stealing” a role from them. In his graduate thesis production, he removed an actor from the show the week before tech, after overhearing them complain about their role. Those people were on track to become fucking professionals, for god’s sake. If they thought the industry owed them anything, they were sorely mistaken. You cast the right person in the role, and that’s it. Fucking simple. 

Anyway, Stede is still standing there, prim and poised, and Edward finally sputters out, “oh, well, I’d still like that headshot, before you go.”

The crease in Stede’s brow softens, and he pulls his phone from his pocket, passing it over to Edward. “Here, then. Put your number in.” 

Fuck, Edward had forgotten that Stede offered to fucking text it to him ; he really is the world’s biggest idiot for indulging this, but he’s so honed in on it that he’s not even sure how he’ll get through the rest of the day without his mind drifting. He types his number into Stede’s phone and hands it back to him wordlessly. Stede’s fingers brush against his as he takes it back, and Stede recoils before Edward has the chance to react and do the same himself. 

“Alright,” Stede says, “I’ll see you, then.”

Edward watches his retreating back, and this time, Frenchie has the good grace to stay quiet.

Izzy has been texting him all evening. He puts his phone on silent and sets it face down on the desk.

Edward startles awake — at some point, he must have passed out in his chair — and finally checks the time, squinting at the sudden brightness emanating from the tiny screen. 2:07am. “Fuck,” he says aloud to no one. The messages from Izzy stopped about an hour and a half earlier, with Good, looks like you finally went to bed. You need it.

There’s also a text from a number he doesn’t recognize, with a photo attached. Swiping away the stack of notifications, Edward opens it.

Unknown Number
Sorry, I kind of lied about having a headshot. Hope this will do!

He taps on the picture. An unfortunately-angled selfie of Stede smiles back at him. Edward recognizes the backdrop — the outside of the Shubert Theatre in New Haven — and Stede is pointing up the old black-tiled marquee behind him, which reads LES MISÉRABLES: APRIL 17-21.

Edward’s red pen is still tucked behind his ear. He untangles it from his hair and pulls the cap off with his teeth, looking down at Stede’s resume in the dim lamp light.

He writes down Jean Valjean , and circles it.