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‘You need to bend your knee there, or you will keep falling.’ Cyprian hummed as he sat on the side of the stage, watching Alaric as he tripped over his own feet again.
‘Thank you, your highness, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Alaric snarked, barely keeping his composure. The other man’s ridiculous fake crown that was modeled on that of the real prince who had lived long ago and died mysteriously. Alaric didn’t doubt that this version of the story was disrespectful and offensive, as well as inaccurate.
‘Evidently.’ Cyprian hummed, picking at his nails. His self-interest had begun to stick out as the reason he was even cast in that oh-so-infamous role of his. ‘Look, I’ve been watching you do this for the last fifteen minutes, so do what I told you to or break an ankle, I do not care.’ He sighed through his words, acting nonchalant even though he had been watching Alaric with eagle eyes.
‘Fine, as you wish.’ He rolled his eyes, taking a moment to breathe. He braced his hands against his knees as he tried to steady himself. Everything hurt but to throw in the towel right now felt like admitting to Cyprian that he was right and that he truly wasn’t good enough.
It had been three hours since the others left for the night, going back to their homes that were only a few minutes' walk from the stage they had been rehearsing on, the one that people enjoyed throwing rotted fruits and vegetables on whenever they dared to rehearse in the light of day. That didn’t make rehearsing any easier. But it shouldn’t have been a problem in the first place! Because Alaric was not a bad dancer, at least not in his mind. In his mind he was average, if not to say better than Gregor who luckily got to hide behind a puppet for half the show.
The issue was Cyprian. Alaric didn’t know why but every time he looked at him something went wrong in his head; something just went funny. He didn’t quite know what it was and considering it was 1439, he didn’t want to know, but that didn’t stop it from driving him crazy. Lines became harder to remember, blocking didn’t become muscle memory the way it had in years past alongside his fellow players, and of course, choreography just didn’t stick. His brother, Bertram had tried to teach him, but he had the mercy of playing Sir Hop-A-Lot, he didn’t have to know half of the things Alaric did. He tried to not resent him for that, Alaric knew his little brother was having a hard enough time with an… infatuation of his own that rendered him incapable of speaking in any and all scenes he shared with the piece’s leading actress – which was many. Alaric wanted to hope he was better than that, but he must have done something in a past life to incur the wrath of The Nine Good Gods, because he was not.
He gathered his thoughts, which, in this case, means rejecting the feelings that gnawed at him. He stood up straight, focused himself on the front of the stage and went to repeat the series of complex motions David had attempted to teach them this morning. The ball scene already caused Alaric enough internal turmoil, the last thing he needed was to make a fool of himself in front of everyone. He quelled his panic and let himself focus on his movements. Legs crossed, he stepped to his left and then–
‘What did I say?’ Cyprian sighed, long and pointed as he looked at him with a smug smile. He couldn’t have been cast more perfectly in Alaric’s mind. Everything he did made his blood boil and made him want to slap him or something else frankly, but he didn’t have time to think about that when he was now lying in a heap on the floor.
‘Yes, because bending my knee really helped.’ He pushed himself into a sitting position on the floor that was covered in the remains of rotted tomatoes, and you could smell it.
‘It would if you did it right.’
‘Well, I thank you for your advice, but I’ll take it from here, your highness.’
‘You’ve used that one.’ Cyprian hummed again; he sounded so unbothered. It only served to make the man sitting on the floor angrier. ‘You know, it is considered disrespectful to The Crown for you to refer to anyone else by that title, even though I understand why you do it, because I’m… well…’ He gestured to himself with an infuriating arrogance.
Alaric just had to grit his teeth and stand back up; he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of continuing the argument. If he did, he would make Cyprian feel justified in all of his asinine comments, he would also inevitably have more to overthink later which he didn’t need when their show was set to premiere so soon. His sudden silence and focus didn’t escape the notice of Cyprian who frowned, just noticeable in Alaric’s peripheral vision. Ignoring him often did that, it was his one weakness, not being lauded and praised, not being given any attention.
‘Here, let me do it with you.’ Cyprian, of course, found a way to get that attention back, standing and wandering to stand by Alaric’s side. ‘You need someone to copy off of anyway, your knees, your feet, your arms? All wrong. Here.’ He reached a hand to move one of Alaric’s arms, resting a hand on his forearm that was immediately cast off with a sharp gesture.
‘Don’t touch me.’ Alaric was a rather terse man, and it showed when he was exhausted, annoyed and ready to stop trying the same thing and expecting different results. ‘If you’re going to “help me” then do that. I don’t have time for your little corrections and mockery.’
‘ Someone’s in a bad mood.’ He rolled his eyes to himself, possibly meaning for Alaric not to hear him. Unfortunately, in such a small space, noise carried, and Alaric couldn’t stop himself from biting back.
‘Maybe because someone won’t leave me alone.’
‘Well, if you don’t want them here all you have to do is directly ask them to leave.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He pretended to lack interest, which quickly failed when Cyprian looked at him again with those sharp eyes that spoke to both curiosity and genuine concern, with just a slight note of amusement and good-natured ridicule.
‘Tell me to leave, Alaric.’
And there was that mocking smile. Alaric genuinely pondered if breaking his nose would be that damaging to the show, or just damaging to him personally. The idea of ever harming Cyprian made him feel ill, but God, did he get on his nerves. Perhaps it was less out of genuine irritation and more that he knew he would have to resist the pull he felt toward him. He was annoyed with his circumstances.
For all of his faults, Cyprian Warwick was a good man. He was self-obsessed but he was gracious. Unintelligent but observant. Arrogant but willing to help others. The image of him that Alaric pretended to see was a compilation of his worst traits and a discarding of his best, it was an attempt to make things less painful for himself. But he had to accept that pain, like everything, went hand in hand with its own opposite: love. He couldn’t stand Cyprian’s overstatement of his own talent, but he found himself in awe of him every day. It was magnetic and terrible.
He found himself considering the other for a moment, his smile that was now faltering in the silence. Hesitation crept in, a fear that Alaric didn’t actually want him there. His heart ached to cure that self-doubt, though his fear prevented him from waxing poetic about how much he did truthfully want him there. Instead, he settled for a heavy sigh and a shake of his head, a gentler cue that, no, he wasn’t going to tell Cyprian to leave. He didn’t want him to.
‘Help me or stop talking.’ He relented after a moment. He wasn’t ready to be completely honest, but he wasn’t going to deal out a swift rejection either. Instead, he returned to where they had started from in the dreaded scene that he was convinced he would be caught crying over at least once.
‘Good man.’ Cyprian laughed at his own condescension before copying Alaric, standing a little ways in front of him, as to show him the choreography. ‘If I go too fast for you let me know, I’m always happy to slow it down and teach it like I would to a group of children.’
Curse whatever made him feel this way. Despite the many similarities to the frankly crude and disgusting character Cyprian portrayed, he was not that. Even in his comments that should have been insulting there was an air of something endearing.
Alaric stifled his smile.