Chapter Text
It’s Monday.
A good Monday, it looks like, because the Narrator manages to wake up hours earlier than normal, and he feels very refreshed from a good night’s sleep.
Even when he takes his time getting ready, making himself extra presentable, he’s able to make it to his theatre well before he actually needs to be there.
(He calls it ‘his’ theatre as if he owns the building, which he doesn’t. But he does rent it out— from a company called Triple Morrigans, if you must know. Chris— a member of the lighting crew— likes mythology, and they’re consistently complaining about the name of it, because apparently in Irish folklore, the Morrigan is already part of a trio, making the name redundant. So the troupe has taken to calling the landlords ‘Triple Crows’, instead.)
The Narrator checks the clock. The cast and crew usually begin trickling in at around 9:30 to prepare for rehearsal, and rehearsal itself begins at 11, so the Narrator now has… a lot of time to kill.
He’s sure he can find something to do. There’s always something to be done around here— running a theatre certainly is never a simple job.
But it’s early on a Monday morning, four weeks into the rehearsal of a show with a finished script, and the Narrator cannot for the life of him figure out something to occupy himself with. The set is in pristine condition, backstage is spotless, and everything else in the building is neatly arranged from the Friday before.
Writing is off the table, too— he already has play ideas that cover two entire pages of one of his many notebooks, and seven of them are already works in progress. He doesn’t feel the need to pick those up quite yet.
The Narrator sits down at his desk, continuously checking the clock, wondering if he can just… wait it out, maybe. But he watches the second hand move agonizingly slowly, and for the first time in a while, the Narrator is bored.
He really needs something to do.
That’s the point in which he makes his first mistake. His current choice in idle activity ends up being to read reviews.
The Narrator opens up the website on his phone— a website for specifically rating theatre work, like his own— and goes to the reviews page for the Isotroupe theatre troupe.
Many reviews are outstanding enough to give him an immediate ego boost, as always. They comment on his clever narrative decisions and his troupe’s excellent performance. This praise makes him feel good. It’s why he has them sorted by top rating, of course, five stars standing bold and bright over each review.
But today, he gets curious.
What else have people been saying? He’s been reading the same reviews for months at this point, the way they’re sorted, and it’s not that he has a problem with that, he likes seeing the praise. But the recent ones have to be just as glowing, yes? Maybe he can find even better reviews that haven’t gotten much attention.
So he sorts them by recent.
The first is shining, exactly what he’s used to– talking about his latest production, and expressing enthusiasm for the teased upcoming one– and the Narrator smiles, pleased. Though they all vary on star level, the second one is equally as gushing, as is the third, and the fourth, and the–
The Narrator halts in his tracks.
A single yellow star stares up at him from his screen, and he stares back in disbelief. It feels so much bolder than its counterparts, which are all clustered in groups of four or five. But here it sits, solitary, alone, the four empty outlines beside it seeming to burn holes in the webpage.
There must be some mistake. He’s seen the occasional three star review, yes, which often offers praise along with carefully balanced light criticism, tastefully pointing out his small errors and respectfully offering their opinion. But a one!?
No, no, there must be a mistake. Yes, the comment will explain that the commenter had in fact accidentally clicked the single star, and would apologize for some technical error they ran into while trying to fix it. It has to be something like that, right?
But as the Narrator begins to read the review, all his hope drains away.
‘Honestly, I could not be bothered to sit through this play to full completion,’ It begins, and the Narrator frowns. People leaving the theatre mid-performance isn’t unheard of, but because of the play itself?
The Narrator reads on, a sour feeling beginning to curl within him.
This feeling quickly turns to rage as he processes the next line.
‘The writing seems obnoxious and unfunny, with the humor and dialogue proving to be more irritating than entertaining.’
Unfunny!? Really, they could’ve boiled it down to anything at all, and they chose humor? Do they think he’s trying for humor? He isn’t! He’s trying to make serious works of art! How is he getting demerits for not being funny??
The Narrator scrolls on. If they can’t be bothered to sit through the rest of his play, then he can’t be bothered to sit through the rest of their review.
…Though, he does pause to thinks for a second, furrowing his brows. Shouldn’t he be listening to this feedback? Clearly, if they weren’t satisfied, they must have had a reason.
The Narrator sighs. Right. Well, if it’s humor they want, then perhaps he can oblige. Maybe he can find a way to work a handful of gags into his plays.
He scrolls to the next review.
That’s a lie. He scrolls directly past it. Now that he’s gotten the bitter taste of negative feedback, he can’t help but wonder what the other negative reviews are like. Surely they’re not that bad, right?
The Narrator scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls, until he lands on the next one.
It’s got two stars this time, which is… better, but it’s not… good. It’s terrible, really, and it leaves the Narrator with a sickening sense of… hurt? Offense? He can’t place the feeling.
‘While the idea for the play is good,’ It says, and the Narrator chooses to skim read a bit.
‘For someone who prefers non-linear stories, this preachiness gets annoying fast.’ It finishes. The Narrator is rather taken aback.
Preachy? His shows aren’t preachy, are they? He’s sure his cast would tell him if they were.
…Right?
Yes, yes, they certainly would.
A sense of unease is starting to build within him. How many people share these same opinions of him? Of his work? How many errors have people pointed out that he’s just… overlooked?
The Narrator scrolls, and he scrolls, and he scrolls. Past hundreds of reviews, only stopping on the ones that matter to him in that moment, the ones with three or four blank stars, with scathing criticism that begins to cut deeper and deeper into the Narrator’s sense of pride.
Eventually, he clicks his phone off, throwing it down on his desk and sinking into his chair with a long sigh.
He stares at some fixed point in the distance, turning over and over in his head the contents of those reviews, feeling very distinctly unstable.
For the first time in a very long time, the Narrator is beginning to have doubts.
He’s always held his work to a high standard, directed productions of the best quality, shows that people love and gush about, shows that stick with them for the rest of their lives. The best of the best. Performances which earned their high reviews, always.
But a low, crushing feeling has started within him, as if he’s being pulled to the ground by a lead weight.
There’s a question in his mind. A question that sticks with him as he mulls over these reviews, feeling his perceived integrity be shredded to pieces.
…Exactly how long has he been wholly incorrect in his judgement?
When the Narrator tells his stage manager that production and writing quality need to be ramped up, they look at him as if he’s grown another head.
“Sorry, what?” TK says, eyebrows raised in bafflement.
“You heard exactly what I said! Our shows must be better, Kovach!”
“That’s a boring name.”
The Narrator huffs in annoyance, and TK analyzes him for a moment, before turning away to continue what they had been doing before he interrupted them. They’d been having a nice, peaceful time copying schedule dates from a little handheld calendar into the troupe’s digital calendar.
“…Why do they have to be better, Narrator?” They ask, deciding to entertain him for today. “I don’t see anything wrong with our production quality. Our actors and crew do a great job as it is, and you direct them and write the shows well enough.”
“It’s the audience, the reception! We’re obviously doing something wrong, here—“
TK turns around to look at him, skepticism crossing their expression.
“Woah, woah woah woah. Who said the audience hated our shows?”
“The audience themselves, TK!” The Narrator says, in an impatient ‘try-to-keep-up’ tone.
Which… well, to be honest TK does feel a little bit like they’ve fallen behind. Putting the thought processes of this man together in a way that’s easy to follow is on occasion harder than trying to put a four-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle map of the world together— it takes up more time than you’ve got, especially in the moment.
(They would know. It’s their pride and joy, but it’s still sitting half-finished on their dining table.)
TK supposes that this wild thought process is probably part of what makes him such an excellent writer.
Belatedly, they connect the dots that he wants them to connect.
“…Are we getting bad reviews all of a sudden?”
”Yes!” The Narrator whines, exasperated.
TK isn’t worried. They know they shouldn’t be. They know him well enough to understand that this reaction is an overreaction. Along with everything else, the whine really confirms their suspicion.
They also know that he won’t let this go unless they do some convincing. Similar things have happened before. So they rotate fully in their chair to face him.
“Okay. Show me.”
The Narrator fiddles with his phone for a moment, and then he turns the screen toward TK. They take it, looking down at it.
The reviews they see right off the bat praise their troupe delightfully.
“I don’t see anything wrong with this,” They state, and the Narrator sputters for a moment, snatching his phone back.
“There’s everything wrong with it, TK! Did you even see the reviews?“
“It said right there that we’ve got an average rating of four and a half stars—“
“But you haven’t seen what they’re saying! Really, does a number compare to written word? No, no, no, no, I must read some of these out loud to you so you understand the problem—“
“Oh my god,” TK pinches the bridge of their nose. “Narrator, there isn’t a problem. Our productions are fine. People enjoy them.”
The Narrator opens his mouth to retort again, but TK is about done with this interaction, so they continue before he can.
“There’s always going to be a shitty review from someone who probably hates theatre and was dragged here by a family member. Doesn’t mean the whole production is bad quality. Okay? Okay.”
The Narrator works his jaw for a moment, and then gives a sharp sigh.
“Fine, fine,” He says, waving a dismissive hand and sounding wholly unconvinced. “Yes. Surely it was just one person. One person, who left twenty bad reviews in the span of four months—“
“Narrator.” TK says sternly, and gloriously, he mostly shuts up, grumbling something about TK ‘not grasping the severity’ of the situation as he turns on his heel and makes his way out of the room, clearly annoyed.
…That didn’t go great, but based on experience from the past, they reason that it definitely could’ve gone worse.
At least happy to be left in peace to do their copying again, TK turns back around in their chair. The Narrator does not come in and complain to them again.
As it turns out, TK’s attempt at convincing the Narrator that there is no issue was unsuccessful.
The Narrator grits his teeth and holds his tongue about the reviews, but it’s only because he isn’t in the mood to argue with TK about how they are actually very significant, and they are reflective of his work. They have to be. Those reviewers wouldn’t say those things for no reason.
Rehearsal flies by, and the Narrator is a little more harsh with his feedback than usual. The cast, though undoubtedly a bit annoyed by it, does not say a word about it, so the Narrator assumes they’ve taken the criticism into account.
This show has to be perfect. It has to outdo every other show he’s ever put on. It has to make the critics eat their words, prove he can come up with a product that’s satisfactory, not half-baked as they think it is.
He stays late that night, far after everyone else has gone, scribbling line after line into his notebooks, crossing out the ones that don’t work (which, at the moment, is most of them, and it makes him frustrated.)
He doesn’t stop for even a second until he looks up at the clock and it’s… almost 10:30.
He blinks, wondering if it’s wrong, but no, he’s just lost track of time.
The Narrator stands up from his desk with a sigh. He’ll finish this tomorrow.
The Narrator does not, in fact, finish it tomorrow.
Not as if he isn’t doing anything to further his cause, no, no. Far from it. His day is slightly more intense than the day before, in fact, and he’s right back in his office after rehearsal is finished, not even saying goodbye to anyone in the troupe unless they come and find him first. He needs to prioritize his time.
Today, he keeps running into more and more issues, issues with scripts and plot lines that can only be solved by fixing different problems, and soon he’s ended up with a tangled mess of problems that makes his head ache a little bit trying to make sense of.
He goes home at a similarly late time that night.
On Wednesday, he has his notebooks with him the entirety of rehearsal, hypothesizing that he just needs to manage his time better and he’ll be able to fix these issues.
But he continuously gets distracted, and due to that he gets irritated, and he’s a little more snippy than usual.
To make up for lost time, he stays until midnight.
On Thursday he stays for even longer, beginning to grow frustrated at his work.
Nothing sounds right. He cannot get anything to sound decent. By the end of the day— by which he means two in the morning— he has three total lines that he’s kept. The rest have been crossed out and thrown away.
On Friday, the Narrator wakes up feeling exhausted. He almost manages to drag himself out of bed, knowing that he has to keep going, but his body– apparently picking up the fact that there’s no rehearsal today– apparently has other plans, and he dozes off for an additional few hours.
He has just enough energy to get to the theatre around midday, and it’s empty. He knows TK is probably here, and perhaps Teoda and Aviva for set design, as well, but he isn’t quite sure about the last pair.
But he is sure that today, he gets a quiet theatre to work in. And he’s at least grateful for that.
“Narrator?”
It’s TK, knocking on the door. They must’ve seen the light on in the Narrator’s office. The man in question sighs, lifting up his glasses and dragging a hand down his face.
“Yes? What is it?”
TK opens up the door a little, poking their head in.
The Narrator’s office is, frankly, a disaster. While it’s usually kept rather tidy, after the last week, papers have been strewn all over his desk, pens lost among the mess of them, a few coffee cups and stains left here and there. TK makes a bit of a face, but it’s less disgust and more… concern.
“…You’re still here,” They say, and it’s not a question.
“As are you.”
“It’s late.”
The Narrator finally spares a glance up at the clock. It is late, actually, almost 9:30pm, nearly a full 3 hours after he was… supposed to leave for the day.
“So it is.”
The Narrator’s office isn’t the only thing that’s fallen into disrepair. The director himself knows he looks rather unkempt at the moment compared to his usual put-together nature, and he has been for a few days. But at the moment, he couldn’t care less.
Which is why, he supposes, TK is analyzing him the way they are right now. They don’t look very impressed with his current state of being, whatever that may be.
“Something’s up, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t a clue what you mean,” Narrator lies.
TK looks even less impressed.
Silence hangs in the room for only a moment, and the Narrator chooses to swivel back around in his chair to face his desk.
But this doesn’t prepare him for what TK says next.
“…Is this about the reviews again?”
Damn it all. They’re too perceptive.
The Narrator’s chair creaks as he leans back in it, letting out a breath. He drags a hand through his messy hair and clicks his tongue as he attempts to locate a good response.
It’s usually not as much of a struggle as it is right now, which does not bode well for his defense— he has his name for a reason, after all.
His silence must be a dead giveaway, because he hears TK sigh.
“Look,” They begin. “I get it. I mean— not personally, but you know what I mean. It’s tough, dealing with feedback like that.”
The Narrator still doesn’t say anything. So TK continues.
“You’ve been working yourself to death for the past week, Noël. I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’ve still been here when I’ve left every other day. And I know you well enough to know that you’re not just sitting in here.”
“And why are you here so late, then?”
“I was double checking to make sure the stagehands had properly reset everything for rehearsal tomorrow. We have some new guys on the team, remember?”
The Narrator falls quiet again.
“You need to slow yourself down. Don’t stress about it. If you’ve exhausted yourself, it won’t make our productions any better.”
The Narrator bites his tongue to keep himself from retorting.
They’re right, and they both know it. Again.
…But it’s still not possible for him to simply relax and not stress about the situation. Someone’s pointed out a drastic issue with his shows, and repairing that is the priority right now.
“Go home, Narrator. Get some rest. Come back to this after the weekend. Just give yourself a break.”
The Narrator sighs, and then nods solemnly, which seems to satisfy TK.
“See you on Monday for our next rehearsal, yeah?”
“Yes,” The Narrator says, and this time, it’s not a lie. “Indeed. I’ll see you then.”
The Narrator hears the jingle of keys receding down the hall, and he knows he’s not going to be leaving until he makes a solution to this problem. He’ll rewrite the entire damn script if that’s what’ll solve it. Critical failures to deliver will not be tolerated.
The Narrator wakes up at his desk, on a Saturday.
It takes him a moment to register where he is, and his back aches very much as he sits up. He winces as it cracks, releasing only some of the pain.
He briefly wonders why he’s here, at the theatre. Part of him doesn’t want to be. Then he looks down at the scatter of papers on his desk, and he remembers.
Right.
He stands up, making his way out the door and across the street to get coffee.
Then, he returns to the theatre, enters his office, and sits back down to continue trying to make something satisfactory.
Hours of his day tick by, one by one.
Crumpled papers rapidly fill the wastebasket, clawed directly from the Narrator’s notebook as he fails and fails and fails and fails. No concept he can come up with feels good enough, not to satisfy an audience, not long-winded or preachy or god forbid unfunny.
This is what the Narrator does all weekend. He sits hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously until his hand cramps and he crosses everything out, increasingly frustrated. Some papers get put out to the side, with single lines circled too many times. But most papers, once they’re filled front and back, go into the wastebasket. He does this all day, and late into the night.
He at least has the sense in him to go back to his home late Saturday night. Sleeping hunched over his desk for two nights in a row won’t bode well for his back, and he simply wants to pass out in his own bed.
The next day, he does the exact same thing.
He has to empty the wastebasket four times that weekend— thrice on Saturday, and only once on Sunday as he feels exhaustion gathering in the back of his head, causing him to grow sluggish.
This is much of what his free time has looked like for the past week— albeit, not quite for such a long time at once, but certainly for hours every day after business in the theatre is concluded.
For the very first time this week, though, the Narrator decides to go home early. Of course, what’s considered ‘early’ this week is around 7 in the evening, but the Narrator is just too damn exhausted. He nearly falls asleep at the wheel twice, and once he’s home, he doesn’t do much else save for flopping down on his bed.
The Narrator wakes up on Monday morning with a prickle in his throat.
There’s a simple explanation. He’s thirsty, probably, so once he’s out of bed, he goes to get water, and it prickles just as much on the way down.
Which is odd. But he doesn’t think much of it.
He makes his way to the theatre, yet again not putting much effort into his appearance. He is, frankly, too exhausted with everything to be able to do so, and he has many other things to worry about.
When he gets out of his car and approaches the doors, he gets a sense that he’s been here recently. As he hesitates, he recalls that he was here just yesterday.
He hasn’t woken up entirely, has he? His brain isn’t quite up to firing speeds yet. And he’s forgotten to get a coffee, which has caused considerable delays in his ability to function properly. Yes. That’s it.
He opens the door and steps inside, idly reminding himself to ask a stagehand to go get him a coffee from the break room before the rehearsal begins. Or, no, maybe Jenny— she’s usually quite keen to do that for the rest of the crew in the mornings, isn’t she? Yes, perhaps he can hold on until her first run to the coffee shop across the street.
He’s snapped out of his train of thought by Jim, who passes by him in the hall.
“Morning, Narry.”
The Narrator tries to return the greeting. Really, he does.
But the words get lodged in his throat, resulting in a frankly embarrassing little sound rather than a word, and he has to make an awkward cough to clear it and try again.
“Good morning, Jim.”
…And he sounds absolutely terrible. Far more terrible than he’d been expecting himself to sound— his words are croaky and strained— and he winces. Jim does a little as well.
“Jeez. You alright?”
Narrator clears his throat again.
“Yes, I apologize.” And thank god, he sounds normal again. “I suppose I’m not fully awake, yet, and it’s gotten to my voice.” He chuckles a little awkwardly, and then excuses himself to hurry into the main theatre.
He does his best to pretend the prickliness isn’t back.
Halfway through rehearsal, something shifts in the Narrator’s head, and he finds himself beginning to sniffle.
It seems others have begun to notice, too, because TK is giving him an odd look, as is Stanley.
The Narrator pretends to ignore them, even as his voice grows hoarser, as his fatigue grows stronger, as his fuse grows shorter. At one point, one of the stagehands brings him a glass of water, which he and his throat are both very thankful for, but the fact that his odd bout of spontaneous suffering is this noticeable is humiliating enough in its own right, and he has to try and minimize the bite in his tone when he grits out a ‘thank you.’
He’s very relieved when rehearsal finally ends, and before anyone can ask him any questions, he excuses himself to the restroom.
What the hell is wrong with him today?
This is what he asks himself as he splashes water on his face, in an attempt to snap himself out of it, maybe. He feels so muddled, so exhausted. Along with everything else.
He can’t figure out why this is— that is, until he happens to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Oh, no.
In the worst possible twist, the Narrator realizes exactly what’s going on.
He’s coming down with something.
If not judging by his behavior and feeling alone, it’s entirely apparent in his appearance— the sickly pallor to his face, drawn and weary expression plastered over it. He’s terribly disheveled, hair messy and out of place, and he looks as if the very action of staying upright has depleted all his energy.
No, no, no, no, no, this is terrible timing. He still has work to do. He can’t catch something now.
He curses under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair and messing it up further.
He needs to keep it together, for the sake of his entire troupe.
He simply has to last until Friday. Then he can rest over the weekend, and he’ll be good as new. Only four days.
Yes. This is what has to happen. It is what will happen.
…That’s what he tells himself, at least.
On his way back to the main theatre— or maybe his office, he doesn’t quite know yet— the Narrator nearly crashes into Stanley, heading down the hall in the opposite direction. The both of them stop, briefly locking eyes before Stanley averts his gaze to the wall.
They stand there for a moment. Awkwardly.
Stanley is taking up most of the hallway right now, and Stanley is one of the few people the Narrator hesitates to force his way past in this scenario. He doesn’t know why— maybe he just simply has a respect for him that is above the rest of the crew.
But either way, Stanley is standing there, unmoving, and now analyzing the Narrator in a way that makes him feel as if he’s under a magnifying glass. The Narrator shifts uncomfortably, and clears his throat expectantly, trying to clue Stanley in to the fact that he needs to get past him.
Unfortunately for the Narrator, a frog chooses to leap its way into his throat at that moment, and the sound that he produces is closer to a strangled croak than a clearing of his throat. He coughs slightly to rid himself of the feeling, but he’s clearly already given himself away, because Stanley frowns.
“…Are you feeling okay?” He signs hesitantly, and the genuine concern in his expression makes the Narrator’s chest warm—
No. Nope. That’s not true.
The concern isn’t warranted because the Narrator is fine, thank you very much. He isn’t letting his troupe know that he’s getting sick, because their production quality is on the line, and they need him now more than ever if the integrity of the troupe is to stay intact.
“…Narrator?” Stanley signs, and the Narrator realizes he’s simply been staring.
“I’m perfectly fine, Stanley,” He snaps, before he can think better of it. “I have no idea why you think you have any place being concerned about me. Be more concerned with yourself and your performance. This is an important production.”
The Narrator can’t help but feel a little bad about the flinch he receives in response. Stanley nods meekly, and then moves to the side to let him through.
Only once he’s well past Stanley does the Narrator finally allow his shoulders to slump, letting out a deep sigh that rattles a little in his chest, inducing another half-cough to try and relieve the sensation.
He drags himself to his office, hoping to distract himself from this with more work, but it doesn’t entirely turn out to be successful. He’s got a headache coming on, and the words swim on the page, and he’s unable to pin any of them down long enough to properly read and take in.
He gives up after a while, going home rather early, utterly exhausted. Perhaps the best thing to do, the Narrator thinks for the first time this week, is to get some rest. Maybe it’ll help him feel better.
As it turns out, he’s already far too doomed for that to work.
When the Narrator wakes up just as exhausted as he’d gone to bed, he guesses that today is going to be rough.
And he’s proven correct by the fit of violent coughing that overtakes him the moment he sits up.
Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. This is exactly the thing he needs right now.
A distant and slightly painful buzz nestles itself in his skull as he drags himself out of bed. He hasn’t even been awake for five entire minutes and he already feels horrendous.
For the sixth day in a row this week, the Narrator does not feel like putting any effort into his appearance. He throws on a turtleneck and a pair of slacks and that’s about all he feels like doing, not bothering with anything else. He just needs a coffee and to leave, because he’s already almost running late.
Halfway to the theatre, the Narrator has to slam on the brakes to prevent himself from rear-ending someone who’d stopped too quickly for his cotton-stuffed brain to react to. He manages the feat, but ends up spilling scalding coffee all over his car and all over himself.
He’s seething and miserable when he finally parks the car, rummaging around in the glove compartment for the paper napkins he always keeps there. Two minutes into cleaning it up he’s too frustrated to continue, and he simply throws the napkins down on the seat.
Deep breaths. He needs to make it through today. And then tomorrow, and then Thursday, and then Friday, and then he can be done.
…
…Friday seems agonizingly far away.
He walks into the theatre, ignoring everyone who says hello to him in passing. He isn’t exactly keen to find out how his voice sounds right now, especially with how much his throat stings, and how blocked his nose is.
He gets settled in his chair with his clipboard without much other issues, besides the whole feeling miserable situation. He’s already got a headache, and rehearsal hasn’t even begun yet, and he bitterly wishes that the cast and crew would just hurry the hell up so that they can get this over with and then he can go home and go back to sleep.
He doesn’t say that, of course. He just sits in his chair, silently frustrated with the speed at which setup is going.
He begins to occupy himself with scanning the set, making sure everything is at least in place. It distracts him well enough from his current state, at least.
Then, the Narrator spots a glint of silver out of the corner of his eye.
Of all the days that the troupe has to be engaging in bucket shenanigans, it has to be today. There it sits, shining tauntingly, balanced on a stool on the stage.
A few of the crew members eye him as he marches to it and snatches it up.
“This damn bucket will not be part of rehearsal today,” He snarls, voice gravelly, and he watches a few cast members wilt dramatically. He couldn’t care less, he’s already moving it off the stage, ready to dump it in the supply closet where it belongs.
The metal is cold against his hands, and once he’s far out of view, nearly at the supply closet, he instinctively lifts the thing and touches it to his forehead. The metal is blissfully cool compared to his undoubtedly burning skin, and he lets out a long sigh, shoulders slumping as he holds it there, eyes fluttering closed. If anything good is to come out of this bucket being around besides Stanley’s smile, that is it’s this. He needed this.
He stands there for who knows how long, with his forehead pressed to the surface of the bucket. Until he hears footsteps, and he opens his eyes, turning to look to—
Stanley and TK, standing at the end of the hall. TK gasps in faux horror.
“Oh my god. You’re right. There is something wrong with him. He’d never get that close to the bucket.” They say, and the Narrator grits his teeth. He watches Stanley snicker, and that laugh at him cuts deeper than usual. TK continues.
“Are you feeling alright, Narrator?” They tease, and the Narrator has just about had enough.
“I’m fine!” He snaps, and he doesn’t exactly mean to, but he throws the bucket to the ground, and it makes a loud clang that rattles in his ears. He sees Stanley flinch as well, smile vanishing, and guilt curls within him. But it doesn’t last long enough to make him feel worse than he already feels.
“So help me God, if I see this thing on the set today, I will crush it.” He growls. “We have a rehearsal to do. You’re adults. Act like it.”
Both Stanley and TK seem to get the memo that today, he’s being serious– TK tenses, nodding stiffly, and Stanley isn’t meeting the Narrator’s gaze.
The Narrator can feel his headache flaring again, and he pushes up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, turning on his heel to walk away.
He hears shuffling, and then the rattle of the bucket being picked up, but the Narrator doesn’t look back. Apparently, he has a bunch of children to direct.
The first half of rehearsal goes… swell.
That’s sarcasm, by the way. It absolutely does not go swell. Every sound feels like it’s piercing the Narrator’s skull, and hearing his own lackluster words spat back out at him is about as beneficial to his situation as you’d expect. It almost feels like they’re taunting him.
His voice gets broken to pieces in record time, a rasp joining the congested sound of his voice as he raises it more than once.
He sees a dreadfully familiar metallic shine only once, but only briefly. TK seems to pick up that he’s about eight seconds away from gripping the pen in his hand so tightly that it snaps, because they usher the culprit off the stage to go put the thing back.
By the first break, the Narrator feels tremendously terrible.
He drags himself to the theatre’s break room, not wanting to walk the distance to his office, and collapses in one of the chairs, sagging forward and all but draping his torso over the table before him, head resting on one hand. He’s alone, seeing as his particularly harsh irritability seems to have driven everyone to steer clear of him today. Thank god for that.
He closes his eyes, willing the room to quit spinning. He sits there, in blissful near silence, the bustle of the rest of the crew so far away.
It’s peaceful silence, until, of course, someone walks in.
The Narrator cracks his eyes open, scowling, and Stanley stands in the doorway, eyeing him for a moment.
“What? What do you want?” The Narrator rasps.
Stanley frowns, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he crosses the room to the sink, and the Narrator watches with narrowed eyes as he gets himself a glass of water, willing him to move faster and get the hell out of here so the Narrator can be by himself.
But he doesn’t. He takes his time, in fact, and then brings it over to the table, and the Narrator thinks for one horrible moment that Stanley is about to sit down and begin some idle chitchat, like any other cast member would, and Stanley sets the water right in front of the Narrator and takes a step back and…
…Oh.
The Narrator glances down at the water, and then up at Stanley. Stanley watches him expectantly, and the Narrator can infer that the water is indeed for him.
If only to get Stanley to leave him alone, he picks up the glass, and grunts out a “Thank you.” before taking a sip of it.
All of a sudden, he realizes how much he needed this water, and before he can stop himself, he’s chugging it far too quickly. Of course he chokes on it, and he’s immediately sent into a coughing fit, all but slamming the cup back down on the table as he tries and fails to draw in a steady breath without triggering more coughs. At some point, the choking-on-water coughing morphs into illness coughing, and once he’s done, he’s feeling twice as drained, and like he’s swallowed a cheese grater. Fantastic.
He sniffles, and Stanley— though currently not looking in his direction, presumably to give the Narrator at least a little privacy as he hacks up a lung— looks particularly worried, brows knitted together.
The Narrator manages to finish the rest of the water without choking on it, and he sets it down with a downright pitiful little groan.
Stanley is quiet, still hovering by the other end of the table, just short of nervously. His eyes have come to rest on the Narrator again, and the Narrator feels scrutinized under his gaze.
“What? What else could you possibly want from me?” The Narrator grumbles— despite the fact that Stanley has asked for nothing in this interaction. Stanley’s frown only deepens.
“…You’re sick.” He signs. It’s an accurate observation, and part of the Narrator wants to say something along the lines of ‘duh’, and another part urges him to continue to deny.
In the end, he chooses neither.
“My health is none of your business—“
Stanley interrupts him with a rather sharp wave of his hands.
“No.”
“No?” The Narrator says, taken aback. “What the hell do you mean, ‘no’? I mean it, Stanley, I’m—“
“No,” Stanley signs, slightly more forceful. “If you’re sick, you can’t direct. It’s my business because we need you as our director. Also, you could get the whole cast sick, and if we’re all sick, we can’t act.”
“Oh. I see. You only care about your actor friends, don’t you?”
…The Narrator doesn’t mean to say that, it just slips out. He’s just bitterly stating the obvious, because of course Stanley cares more about his friends than his boss, the Narrator isn’t entitled to his damn friendship.
Stanley blinks in surprise, taking in a small inhale, and then furrows his brows.
“I didn’t say that.” He signs firmly.
The Narrator opens his mouth, and then closes it, and he lets out a sharp sigh, massaging his temples.
Stanley’s expression softens a little before he continues.
“You need to take care of yourself, Narrator,” He signs, a lot gentler. “Let yourself rest. You don’t need to put yourself through this.”
“Yes, I do!” The Narrator snaps, just short of shouting, slamming his hands on the table and shooting upright.
He realizes his mistake after he sees Stanley flinch, and he feels guilt and shame wash over himself. The Narrator slowly sinks back down into his seat, fixing his gaze on the table.
“I—I’m sorry, Stanley,” He says softly. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Stanley doesn’t reply immediately, a frown plastered onto his face. He doesn’t even look at the Narrator, and the Narrator’s guilt hasn’t gone away.
“…Yeah,” Stanley signs finally. He takes a deep breath, and then lets it out, turning back toward the Narrator. “You should go home.”
The Narrator feels hurt curl within him, as well as a little dread. Does Stanley not want him here?
…He supposes he deserves that.
“Get some rest,” Stanley continues. “We can call rehearsal halfway—“
”No, Stanley,” The Narrator interrupts, quiet yet firm. “I can’t do that.”
“Why??” Stanley signs in response. “Why not?”
The look the Narrator gives him seems to be enough to tell him to drop the subject.
Stanley’s shoulders slump, and he gives a sharp sigh, running his fingers through his hair.
It’s clear he wants to say more, it’s written all over his expression, but the icy glare that the Narrator is currently giving him seems to be enough to stop that.
And so Stanley, sparing one last concerned glance at the Narrator, slinks away.
The Narrator buries his head in his hands, letting out a quiet groan. He feels distinctly guilty for being so harsh on Stanley, and it only serves to make him feel undoubtedly worse overall.
He doesn’t have time for feeling like this. According to his watch, rehearsal is going to begin again soon, and the Narrator scrubs his hands up and down his face. He drags himself to a standing position, swaying slightly on his feet, and begins making his way out to the main theatre.
The bright spotlights of the stage make the Narrator’s headache flare again, and once he’s collapsed in his chair, he presses the heels of his palms over his eyes, trying to at least spare himself the pain until he has to look again.
He hears footsteps getting closer, but he doesn’t remove his hands from his eyes, not even when he hears TK’s voice.
“…You okay, Narry?”
“I’m fine.” The Narrator grits out, and he’s beginning to feel like a broken record.
TK hovers for a moment, as if they want to say something else, but they make the correct choice and walk away.
The Narrator is grateful for that, at least.
When rehearsal officially begins again, the Narrator has to remove his hands from his face, which he isn’t very happy about. Despite how much he feels like shit and wants to go home, he has a job to do, a production to save, and that’s far more important than anything else.
(He isn’t sure if the spotlights are actually dimmer, or if that’s just his hopeful imagination speaking.)
The whole theatre goes blissfully silent as the second act begins.
Stanley walks onto center stage, perfectly on cue. He stands without a script— having undoubtedly memorized the whole thing already. He has a monologue in this scene, see, and it is possibly the only bit of writing that the Narrator is remotely proud of right now.
Though, he’s not sure if he’s simply proud of it since Stanley always does an expert job of delivering the words he’s written. The Narrator had written this particular monologue with Stanley in mind, in fact, because Stanley always speaks his monologues with a particular cadence that fills him with an inexplicable sense of satisfaction.
Stanley clears his throat, and the Narrator sits up a little straighter, eagerly looking forward to possibly the only good thing today.
…Focused as he is, the Narrator doesn’t catch the way many of the other cast members on stage are looking nervously between him and Stanley, as if they expect something bad to happen.
Stanley opens his mouth, and he begins to speak.
But it isn’t the monologue that the Narrator is hoping to hear.
“Go home, Narrator.” He says, and the Narrator all but recoils.
”Excuse me!?”
Stanley closes his mouth, and he stares levelly, not uttering another word.
He knows the Narrator has heard him loud and clear. The entire cast seems to know, as well, because every single pair of eyes in the room shifts onto him, waiting, expectant, pinning him where he sits.
The Narrator thought that he liked being the center of attention. But now, it feels stifling, pressing down on his chest like a weight he can’t remove.
The Narrator sputters.
“I swear to God, Stanley, if you hold this rehearsal up because of these antics—“
Stanley says nothing.
The Narrator grits his teeth, frustrated, but he can feel another emotion worming its way into his chest.
It’s not one he’s expecting to feel, either.
“Do something.” The Narrator demands. “Please.”
His voice trembles, wobbly and wavery in a way that’s so uncharacteristic of him.
The entire room is silent, save for his shaky breathing.
The Narrator is scared. He isn’t sure why, but fear and dread are crawling their way into his chest, constricting around his heart.
Stanley squares his jaw, tilting his head upright. Defiant. Not listening. Refusing.
Not a soul moves to follow his instructions.
And to his own dismay, the Narrator can feel himself beginning to panic.
His cast isn’t listening to him. This hasn’t ever happened before, they always listen to him, even through their shenanigans they always listen to him.
But right now, not a soul is moving, half of them aren’t even looking at him, and his breathing starts to heave, and he can’t get enough air, and nobody’s listening to him it’s like he’s not even there—
“DO SOMETHING!” The Narrator shouts, his voice breaking, and half the cast flinches. But Stanley firmly stands his ground.
The room remains quiet, and the Narrator’s shuddering breaths seem to echo throughout the whole theatre.
He can’t take this anymore. He can’t take it, he can’t take it, his eyes are starting to prickle and burn and his chest is too tight and his cast isn’t listening to him and he’s on the precipice of a breakdown and he’s never broken down in front of his cast who is not listening to him—
The Narrator abruptly gets up out of his chair, and he leaves without another word, all but dashing out of the theatre.
The cloud of negative emotion clings to him as he hurries down the hallway, swiping at each of his eyes in turn to try and stop the flood before it cascades down his face.
As stressed as the troupe has seen him in the past, they’ve never seen him cry. It isn’t something that happens, ever.
It’s something that’s done in private, and the Narrator sure as hell knows he’s not going to have this breakdown in his office— not where anyone can walk in on it. So he finds himself going past his office, slamming the front door open, and making a beeline for his car.
A little belatedly, he realizes he’s still holding his clipboard, and he throws it on the passenger’s seat just in time.
Then, the Narrator, director of the Isotroupe theatre troupe, buries his head in his hands, and he begins to cry.
Not only has he lost the integrity of his writing, but he’s also somehow lost the trust and respect of his entire troupe. By refusing to go home once, he’s lost every ounce of reputation he’s held, and he’s no director. They never thought he deserved that role, they never really wanted to listen to him, and this was the final straw, and now they’ll never listen to him again.
And, of course… What’s a director without anyone to direct? Without anyone who will listen to him?
The Narrator sobs uncontrollably until he has no tears left to shed, leaving him nothing but a sniffly mess, and he dries his face with a few of the coffee stained napkins.
They don’t want him back in the theatre, do they?
No. No, of course not. Not after that, no, they have proven that they don’t want him. They don’t need him.
TK spares a glance at the rest of the room, gauging everybody’s reactions, and then they quickly go to follow the Narrator.
They don’t find him in his office, which is a problem. And then they hear the front door slam, which is also a problem.
They know he’s going home. He won’t be coming back if he’s left the building now.
An outburst like that is highly unusual for him. Which is why they find themself worrying about him. If he’s not doing well, it could potentially mean bad things for the troupe.
It appears they’re not the only one worried, as well— though, for different reasons. Stanley comes jogging up to the door, looking helplessly between it and TK.
“Did he leave??” Stanley signs, concern plastered over his face.
“Yes,” TK replies. “He did.”
Simple concern drops into a mixture of a lot of things— guilt, worry, and slight horror.
“Oh, god, was that too much?”
TK nods.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I didn’t mean to make him so upset, I just wanted him to take care of himself and get some rest, and TK, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault—“
TK shakes their head.
“Stanley. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Stanley wrings his hands for a moment before continuing.
“…Should I call him and apologize?”
TK sighs.
“Not yet, no. Give him space. He needs it.” They say.
They know him. They know him well, in fact, and they know that space is the best thing he could be given right now.
Stanley had told them that something was wrong with the Narrator earlier today. They’d already suspected it, but now their suspicions were confirmed.
Hopefully, he’d take this time to rest for once.
“I think we can go ahead and cancel the rest of rehearsal,” TK says. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
TK and Stanley make their way back to the rest of the troupe. TK gives them the debrief of how things are going to go for the rest of this week, gives the troupe instructions, and then dismisses everyone for the day.
The rest of this week isn’t going to go great, and they can tell.
TK can only hope they’re making the right decision.