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“When are we on?” Jonny asks, and Brian groans in a familiar exasperation.
“We’re on fifth, Jonny. Third’s on right now. I’ve said this like, a billion times.”
Jonny gasps, raising one hand to his chest in mock-offense. “How dare you!” He cries, “I am dyslexic! ”
“That has nothing to do with this current situation, Jonny,” Nastya drawls from where she’s sat on the floor, using her viola case as a back rest.
He throws his harmonica at her.
She dodges, and goes back to typing away on her phone.
Ashes grabs the poor, abused harmonica, and inspects it for any meaningful damage. (Doubtful that the damn thing would give out now of all times, after years of similar abuse, but it’s just as well to check.) They hand it back to Jonny with a warning look before going back to fiddling with the deck of cards they like to shuffle between their hands as a nervous tic.
The ruckus from onstage, muffled behind the thick cinder block walls of the dressing room they’re sitting in, subsides slowly.
They’re left in a moment of silence as the third act packs up and the fourth moves on.
Arthur Pendragon pops his head in, unwittingly interrupting this rare moment of quiet between them. His hair is matted down to his forehead with sweat. “Mr. Hatter told me to remind you that y’all’re on next, act five!” He grins, still hopped up on the adrenaline of being onstage. “Though me ‘n Gwen ‘n Lance are still salty yer not playing our and Mordred’s set.”
Raph pipes up from her place perched in the corner, still fiddling with the cloth of her wings, “you and your partners adopting a middle schooler and then nearly sending our AC to an early grave is old news, my guy. We’ve got a whole new one coming, just you wait.”
Out of the view of the group, Guinevere adds, “A whole new set that wouldn’t so happen to involve your new girlfriend, I’m guessing?”
“Listen,” Jonny interrupts, ever the defensive one about their music, “I’m the band’s leader-“
“No you aren’t.”
“Liar.”
“-shut the fuck up. Anyways, most of us aren’t dating Lyf, and we still wrote the album. We’d have done it even if those three-“ he gestures to Marius, Ivy, and Raphaella, “-hadn’t given a shit about them. It was an epic tale, getting that cunt Ms. Odin fired.”
Arthur snorts. “Y’all will all be together with them by next term, mark my words. But I have to go, so good luck out there, I’ll be watching. Break people’s legs, or whatever.”
He shuts the door, and Jonny smirks deviously. “Ohhh we will .”
Tim, having stood up and moved towards the door, bops Jonny on the head.
“Don’t. We’ll get blacklisted from the talent show. And probably expelled. Now, I’m going to the toilet. Toy Soldier, watch my guitar until I get back.”
“Right-O, My Good Man!” The Toy Soldier confirms, though it’s much more subdued than usual. This draws the attention of the other Mechanisms, who just know realize it’s uncharacteristic silence in the past few hours.
“You alright, Toy?” Brian asks, pushing past Marius to kneel next to it.
It grins in reassurance. “Just Fine, Ole Chap! Jessica’s In A Bit Of A Tizzy About A Right Rude Thing Her Mother Said Earlier. It’s Been Distracting Me!”
Jonny scoffs at the mention of Jess’ (and by extension The Toy Soldier’s, though it seems to consider her a particularly thick housemate more than anything) mother.
“You can sleep over tonight, Toy. Mum won’t care. She’ll probably make biscuits for you, the ones you like.”
“She’s doing that anyway after the show, Jonny,” Nastya reminds him.
“Oh yeah. Well, point strengthened, she will make biscuits.”
“Lovely!” Toy responds cheerily. “I Shall Take You Up On That Offer!”
Tim pops back into the room, slamming the door pointedly and wincing. “Who on earth let that wanker into the talent show? I mean, it’s called a talent show, not a… um. Untalented show!” He complains.
“Who?” Marius asks.
“Fucking, uhhh…” Tim snaps his fingers, searching for the name. “Anthony.”
“I repeat: who?”
Ivy finally glances up from her copy of George Orwell’s 1984. “Pilchard.”
“Oh! Why didn’t you just say so. Why on earth would I know that bastard’s first name?”
“Because we have chem and English with him?” Ivy counters.
Marius just shrugs.
Finally, the music from onstage dies down, and Nastya hefts herself up, unsnapping the latches of her viola case. “We’re on.”