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The kettle clicks off. It’s the loudest sound in the rehearsal room. Aside from Ollie Plimsolls’s voice, of course. That always wins. Dave stirs a sad cup of tea in a stained mug while Ollie paces behind him like a manic rodent, script in hand, jumper sleeves flapping like a cloak of unbridled, twitchy rage.
“Absolutely not! I am not auditioning some random woman because you say so, Dave.”
“She’s not random-“
“Oh I’m sorry, do I know her? Has she ever acted in one of my plays? Does she know the ins and outs of issue-based children’s theatre?” Ollie spits the words out like they’re bitter on his tongue.
Dave shrugs. “She’s not random - she’s a mate. Why not give her a chance?”
“Because, Dave,” Ollie huffs, dramatic to the point of parody, “we do not need some random - some outsider - joining Legz Akimbo two weeks before the debut of ‘No Home 4 Johnny.’ Do you want to be laughed at?”
“No one’s laughing, Ollie. Except maybe at you.”
He slams the script down. Dave takes a long sip.
“She’s smart. She actually cares about this stuff.”
“She cares, does she?” Ollie sneers. “Oh, how wonderful. Maybe she can care us through a seventeen-date school tour with no money, no tech, and a member missing!”
He throws himself into a plastic chair like he’s dying of consumption, then continues. “I have standards, Dave.”
“Do you? You cast Anne as The Virgin Mary in the nativity.”
“She had presence.”
“She had a fit on stage.”
Ollie throws up his hands like this is all beneath him. He’s wound so tight the pulse in his neck is practically visible. He runs a hand through his fluffy hair, then pushes his glasses up his nose.
“I don’t know what this is,” he mutters, standing again. “This panic hire. This desperation for Phil’s replacement.”
Dave sighs. “I just think she’d be good, mate. She’s done proper devised work. She’s not shy. She’s got a brain, and she gets it.”
Ollie scoffs. “Oh good. She’s got a brain. What is she, a feminist?”
“You’re a feminist when you’re trying to get laid, Ollie.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Dave groans. “You don’t even know her.”
“I don’t need to. I already hate her.”
Somehow, Dave manages to force Ollie into meeting you at the pub later that evening ‘for a quick pint, not an audition.’ You’re a few minutes late. The pub is warm. Sticky floors, low, warm lighting, the murmur of tired drinkers. It smells like beer and cigarettes. Dave said they’d grab a booth near the back, and when you spot him - drink in hand, coat still on - there’s a man across from him pacing.
That must be him. Ollie. He’s in a massive striped jumper that’s swallowing him whole, ranting about some booking error and something. He looks like a pissed-off cartoon owl. He hasn’t seen you yet. He’s too busy performing to an imaginary camera crew. You notice the hair first - a fluffy mess of blond, like he’s been electrocuted by his own brain. Then the eyes - even from a distance, piercing blue. He’s tiny, twitchy, and stomping around like someone insulted him to his face.
And then you walk up.
“Hi,” you say, a little wary. “Sorry I’m late. You must be-“
He stops mid-sentence. Blinks. His brain short-circuits in real time. You watch it happen. The transformation is instant. Like someone’s swapped the tape mid-monologue.
“…Hi.”
His voice is suddenly soft. Unnaturally so. You just look at each other for a moment. His gaze flickers from your mouth to your collarbone to your hands, then away so fast it’s almost bashful.
Ollie blinks once. Twice. Adjusts his glasses. “You’re … you’re her.”
“Yeah. (Y/N).”
“…Right. Of course. Uh. Yes. We were just-“
Dave’s staring at him, mouth hanging wide open. “You were just saying something, weren’t you?” he says pointedly.
Ollie shakes his head rapidly. “Was I? Oh, no. Nothing. Just talking about … funding. And grants. Yes. We love grants. I’m very passionate about the arts, actually. Myself. Personally.”
You smile politely, and something in him malfunctions. You watch him as you both sit down opposite one another. He fumbles with his drink like it’s his first time handling liquid. His hand brushes his hair back, too fast, and it puffs up even more - soft and golden. His lips are parted like he’s about to say something, but then doesn’t. Just kind of stares at you.
“He’s being weird,” Dave says, directly at you. “He didn’t even want you here.”
Ollie glares daggers, laughs nervously. “That’s not- shut up, Dave. Don’t listen to him. You’re very welcome. Obviously. You have … lovely posture.”
Dave snorts into his pint. “What the fuck are you doing.”
Ollie snaps his head around. “Nothing! I’m just being welcoming. God forbid I try to create a safe space for women, Dave.”
You blink. “…Thanks?” You don’t know what else to say. You kind of want to marry him out of spite.
Dave, meanwhile, just mutters, “This is so fucked.”
Ollie waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t listen to him. He’s jealous because I have vision.”
Dave just sips his pint with a grin, cheeks glowing red with glee. “Jesus Christ.”
Ollie turns bright pink. You don’t miss the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Or the way his fingers twitch every time you laugh. You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this - the angry theatre goblin Dave described suddenly being all soft and strange. He’s still a prick - you can feel it under the awkward charm and flustered rambling. But now you want to see what it takes to make him unravel.
You cross your legs under the table. His eyes follow the movement - lingering far too long to be accidental. Then he’s looking at the the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but you. But God, he just can’t help himself. He watches your mouth. Your eyes. There’s hunger in it - but it’s tangled with nerves. Disbelief. Like he doesn’t trust that this is real. That you’re real. That you’re sitting across from him, warm and confident and humorous, and not recoiling at the state of him.
And the worst part? He wants you to like him. Desperately. Stupidly. Against his will.
Dave leans back with a smirk, but you’re still watching Ollie - fascinated. He’s oddly still now, except for the twitch in his fingers and the way he keeps licking his lips like he’s about to say something important but can’t remember what language to say it in.
“So,” Dave says casually, drawing it out like he knows exactly where to stick the knife, “want her to join Legz Akimbo?”
“Yes.”
Too loud. Too fast. Like a gunshot of enthusiasm. Ollie’s whole body jerks with it, as if even he wasn’t prepared for how quickly it came out. His knee slams the underside of the table. The pint glasses rattle. Your water nearly tips. Ollie winces. Tries to hide it behind a very poorly composed sip of beer, even as his eyes water slightly from the pain. His leg twitches again under the table.
“Christ,” Dave mutters under his breath, biting back a laugh. “Quite enthusiastic there, Ollie.”
Ollie clears his throat, straightening. “I just think it makes sense, David. She’s clearly qualified. She understands the tone. And the movement of the - of the body in space. You can tell.” He gestures vaguely toward you.
It’s probably meant to sound theatrical, poetic, like some bullshit director speak - but the way he says it - quiet and almost reverent, makes something coil hot and strange in your stomach.
Dave stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about.”
“I’m making a point,” Ollie snaps, then turns back to you. “Would you … want to join? Legz Akimbo, I mean. If you’re free. Obviously. No pressure. Well … some pressure. Potential. There’s a lot of potential. For you. Here. With me- us.”
You smile. He looks seconds from combusting. And under the table, his knee knocks the leg of it again - so softly this time it almost feels like a nervous tic. Or maybe just the aftershock of being in your orbit too long. You lean back in your seat, arms crossed lightly, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You let the moment hang just long enough to watch him squirm - and then you speak.
“Alright,” you say. “I’m in.”
Ollie blinks. You see it ripple through him like someone’s poured ice cold water down the back of his jumper.
“You - sorry - you are?” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence like a teenage boy seeing a bra strap for the first time.
“Yeah,” you say, casually. “Why not? Sounds fun.”
There’s a beat. And then Ollie makes a noise. It’s not quite a word. It’s more like a sound effect - the kind of glitchy, high-pitched stutter a printer makes right before it jams. He shifts in his seat too fast and his shoulder bumps the wall, his glasses slide down his nose, and his mouth opens like he’s about to thank you or pitch a script or propose marriage.
Instead he just makes another noise. “Ah- yep- yes! Good! That’s - well - lovely! That’s good. That’s- great decision. Very wise. You’ll fit in. Here. With me- us! In the space.”
Dave looks like he might actually fall out of the booth from laughing silently. Ollie tries to compose himself. He folds his arms, then immediately unfolds them because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He nods. Once. Then three more times in quick succession, like he’s buffering in real time.
Then he opens his mouth again. “Welcome,” he says, voice way too formal now, “to Legz Akimbo.”
You smile sweetly. “Thanks, boss,” you say, playfully.
Ollie visibly shudders - then slams the rest of his drink like he’s trying to put out whatever just caught fire behind his ribs.