Chapter Text
There had been some changes made at Illyria Prep, Headmaster Horatio Gold reflected as he looked through his files, and there would be more changes in the coming year. The prestigious Elsinore Academy had closed, and so Illyria was getting an influx of new students. Normally Headmaster Horatio would be gleeful at the prospect, but now it was with sorrow that he embraced his fortune: Hamlet Denmark, Sr., headmaster of Elsinore Academy, had mysteriously died while napping in his office, forcing the closing of the school for an investigation.
Besides the group from Elsinore – Hamlet Denmark, Jr., Horatio Wittenberg, Larry and Ophelia Polonius, Ross Crantz, Gilbert Stern, Osric O’Hare, and perhaps a few others – there was an invader from Norway High. Daniel Fortinbras, Jr., son of the late great soccer player Daniel Fortinbras, Sr., had decided that he wanted to go to a school with a better soccer team, and he decided that Illyria was it. Coach Dinklage had already fallen over himself begging the young Fortinbras to captain the team, following in the footsteps of graduate Duke Orsino.
Yes, thought Headmaster Horatio, this year would be quite as interesting as the last.
Andrew Aguecheek was depressed. This was nothing new for him, and had in fact been building ever since September of the previous year. As the best friend of Toby Belch and sidekick of Duke Orsino, he had been a somebody at Illyria, but that was before girls had entered the picture. Soon Duke was spending all his time with Viola, and Toby with Eunice, and Andrew was left out in the cold. Though still friendly with the guys on the soccer team, he felt lost. Viola’s friend Paul Antonio had helped a little, but Andrew had panicked when he realized that Paul had something more than friendship on his mind.
To make matters worse, he had failed enough of his classes that he had to do his senior year over. Toby, thanks to Eunice, had passed everything with flying colors, and Duke was perfect as always. Andrew had gone to their graduation, smiling fixedly and joking about keeping their legacy alive.
He had secretly hoped to be the captain of the soccer team, but even that was taken away from him. Not that he could blame Coach Dinklage. Daniel Fortinbras had true talent, not just a famous father.
“Hey, I remember you,” Daniel said when he was introduced to the team. “Duke’s pal, right? Pretty good player. I kept you from scoring a few goals.”
“Not enough of them,” Andrew replied. Illyria had beaten Norway often.
Daniel laughed. “True. But now you’re on my team, so no one’s left to stop any. This is gonna be good.”
“Thanks, Daniel.”
“Call me Forti. Everyone does.” Actually, some people, resentful of his parentage, referred to Daniel as Forti-two. This usually earned them a glare. Punches in the face were, of course, reserved for bra jokes.
“Sure thing, Forti.”
“You’ll be at tryouts, right?” asked Forti. “If Coach Dinklage lets me have any input, I’ll want yours. You know what these guys are capable of, and you’ve got more experience with high school soccer than any of us— er, no offense.”
“None taken,” said Andrew, wincing a little even as he thought that hey, this year might not be so bad after all.
Hamlet Denmark, Jr. was also depressed, which was only natural considering that his father had apparently been murdered and a culprit had yet to be found. Not to mention that his mother had just married his uncle.
But, more importantly, Hamlet had not made it into the school musical.
“It’s not fair,” Hamlet repeated for the umpteenth time that day.
“Of course it isn’t,” said Horatio Wittenberg automatically. He was sitting on the floor of Hamlet’s coveted single room, absorbed in his philosophy textbook.
“I’m serious,” said Hamlet. “This department is so political, it makes me sick. They just don’t like me cause I’m from Elsinore.”
“Hamlet, you insulted everyone at the audition.”
“Well, they were all bad!”
“You insulted the director.”
He had, in fact. He’d scoffed at the compliments and suggestions he’d given to the other students and dramatically asked the sky, where were the epic characters, where was the passion?
“Mr. Denmark,” Mr. Quince, the director, had said, looking severely at Hamlet over his glasses, “this is Grease, not Greek tragedy.”
“Well, maybe it should be Greek tragedy!” Hamlet had exclaimed. It was then that Horatio, watching from the back row of the auditorium, had given up all hope of Hamlet being cast as Danny Zuko.
“It’s his own fault for picking such a dumb show,” said Hamlet. “I’ve played Sweeney Todd and Stanley Kowalski, I don’t need this crap.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Horatio, and he went back to his book. Hamlet settled back down onto his bed, counting the holes in the ceiling.
The quiet didn’t last long. “It’s not fair!”
“Hamlet,” said Horatio, his patience finally starting to wear thin, “if being in a show is so important to you, why not just get a group together and do your own?”
Hamlet, who had been about to punch his pillow, froze. “You. Are. Brilliant,” he said, and leaned down to kiss Horatio. “And you’ll make a fantastic stage manager.”
“Stage manager?” asked Horatio, his eyes widening in horror. “Hamlet, I never said—”
But Hamlet was already scribbling furiously in his notebook.