Work Text:
There was a time when busy streets of Paris were plagued by lack of lighting, as it was simply not enough for the large swarm of worker bees who were very eager to go home. As if by schedule, the just empty streets would once again be filled with noise. The sounds of quick steps, the clopping of hurried hooves, and the distant ringing of bells all blended into the unified cacophony of everyday life. This stinging dilemma became shortly solved all thanks to the bright letters of the once-famous theater, Golden Rose! Its building stood out so brightly that the lost would fine their way by orienting on it. Some even called the avenue "the Golden Rose street", so popular it was. Every passer-by's head would involuntarily turn towards the theater, a tired gaze would turn into an admiring one, before the fellows would snap out and go on with their way.
If any of these passers-by were told that in an unknown amount of time, a month or a year or even a decade, this grandiose building would fade into oblivion, the esteemed passer-by would first blink in confusion and then they'd laugh and confidently in the face of the speaker. After all, how could a place where passions and experiences merge into a living flame suddenly fall? It is eternal to be and to prosper! This is how the Romans sang about their empire, but what about now? Its last echoes are now forever trapped within the pages of history.
Ronald sat motionless. His hand froze over an empty sheet, the pen long since fallen from his relaxed grip, and his eyes stared wearily at the oak table. Suddenly, the man jerked with his whole body and turned around, looking at the clock.
There was no need to awake at five in the morning. But Ronald didn't have any choice: insomnia took its toll, and he found himself sleeping for only four hours a day.
The man reached for the drawer of the table and pushed it open, pulling out an orange jar with thick glass. A pill with a sip of stale water, and the hope that the headache would let go for at least an hour.
Ronald donned a simple black tailcoat with a low collar and straight sleeves. It was an ordinary suit, not particularly standing out among the crowd. Only the golden rose attached to the chest escaped the cruel fate of the actor's previous clothes, which remained dusty in the closet due to the fact that its owner had not been on stage for a long time. Red's place undoubtedly isn't in the dark, but what could he do? The responsibilities of being a director came to the forefront and pushed his acting career to the side. Although deep down, Ronald still held onto the hope of returning to the stage, he felt his hope fading with each passing day. The problems continued to plague the theater, and people began to shy away from it, with almost all the former actors having resigned due to the superstitious fear of the recent tragedy. The death of Lady Bella was a devastating blow to everyone, casting a heavy burden over innocent heads.
The headlines of the newspapers were rattling for a long time. Journalists tried to squeeze as much as possible from this case in the desperate hopes of getting popular and wealthy, which also benefited the opponents of the theater. The cruel chain of dominoes hasn't met any obstacles on its way, which would stop the course of catastrophes. Except for...
"Ronald!" Before the man could turn the key in the lock, he heard the voice of the messenger behind him. Turning around, Ronald raised his eyebrow.
"What is it, Jingle Bells?"
Without an answer, the bellboy handed him two letters. The first one was a beautiful black envelope with red seal clinging on it, eager to keep its secret in privacy. The second letter was simply tied with a thick thread, not so secured, and the thin paper fluttered in the director's trembling hands.
Ronald looked at the messenger in confusion.
"Since when you're responsible for delivering letters?"
The bellboy shrugged and replied:
"I was just woken up and sent to fetch you. They said it was urgent... I didn't even have time to fully wake up and make out their face...They just shoved an envelope into my hands and left."
The bell jingled as he casually pointed to the letters, but his voice didn't sound annoyed or angry. On the contrary, he spoke like he was casually fulfilling his duties. Ronald found himself wondering why he was still carrying out tasks for the theatre, even after the recent events that took place in it.
"Thank you. You can go. Your shift hasn't started yet".
Ronald turned back towards the doors, opening the shutters up and down. But he still felt the presence of someone else. Why isn't the bellboy leaving?
"You're came here before the sun showed up... And yesterday too," the young man's gaze stirred with concern, as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Is there a reason for that?"
Ronald paused. His hand hung on the doorknob before he abruptly pulled it. He then turned to the messenger and smiled faintly. "Early bird gets the worm. Heard that from the English?"
The man didn't have time to answer, as the director's face disappeared behind the closed doors of the theater.
The actor didn't touch the first letter, hiding it under a stack of papers inconveniently residing on the sofa. He sat down next to it, trying to untie the weak rope. However, the knot was quite intricate, and the man's trembling fingers struggled to work with precision, so Ronald, irritated and exhausted, simply slid the rope from the letter. His eyes immediately went for the painfully familiar handwriting, and to confirm it, he looked down, on the signature.
The rounded curl of the capital "M", the thin and sharp lines which connected the letters, and a tiny star that adorned the tail of the "n".
Mike Morton.
The principal's chest tightened painfully, and a warm sense bitterness overcame him. The memory of that evening appeared in front of his eyes, like a fresh throbbing wound.
Two months ago, a week after Lady Bella's death, Sparrow received an offer for the lead role in a moving theater named after sir **. The performer didn't want to accept the invitation. But Ronald insisted. He couldn't hold him down like a dead anchor. He would never forgive himself for letting the fruits of Sparrow's talent shrivel up and rot. Hell, even which under Scrooge's direction, Sparrow definitely deserved to be a much bigger role an entertaining stuntman.
Mike refused to listen to the actor. If there was a clueless witness to this exact scene, they'd think that Ronald is
just trying to sent Sparrow away.
It all came into a big argument in which Ronald tried to calm his friend down and explain that he wasn't trying to get rid of him at all, because why would he? Ronald futilely tried to prove himself. He made a promise which. He will bring the theatre back on its feet, bring back its former elegance and, surpassing the last director, turn beloved Golden Rose into a pedestal of the arts. And then!....
Or, pulling out a spare card, Ronald brought up the topic of money. It was no secret to anyone that for Sparrow, his career was not only his love, but also his bread.
The stuntman fell silent and finally agreed to accept the offer. This was the decision they made. Ronald walked with him to his train train and, after bidding him farewell, made another, a second promise to often send him letters. They've started corresponding ever since. At first, they wrote to each other actively, but after some time, one letter sent became rarer than the previous. The last one was sent by Ronald, and it remained unanswered for two weeks.
As the man progressed through the letter, he couldn't contain the stream of tears running down his cheeks. In the letter, Mike wrote about everything that happens in the troupe in most detail and , as well as how he missed the Golden Rose and even met a former actor in England, where he had performed the previous week (Sparrow did not spare any words to describe the empty posh and fakeness of his performance). This achingly familiar style of speech made a smile appear on the director's tear-stained face.
He imagined Sparrow standing by his side, waving his arms in indignation, calling Sergi a shitpile, and complaining about the stage lights being too bright which failed to show the performers' faces properly. Then his flexible shoulders would droop, and his voice would go to nearly whisper and bitterness would seep from it as he'd how much he misses the reddish lights of the theatre, his fellow actors rehearsing on the stage, and Lady Bella, who, in those moments, would stand aside, maybe holding a letter or a gift in her hand...
Ronald's vision blurred as tears welled up again. His head throbbed as his memories collided and overlapped each other in a tumultuous and uncontrollable whirlpool. A sense of helplessness filled Ronald up , sending a new wave of agony through him. Hunched over his knees, he clutched his head, digging his nails into his scalp as if it would stop the unbearable pain.
Could he bring back the old times? Had he done the right thing by taking the ownership of the theater in his hands instead of letting it get sold away to an arrogant nobleman? Is this it? The end of the theater, and no matter what he does, it is doomed to fall?
Ronald didn't know how long he had remained in this hunched position. When he came to his senses, the sun was already taking ahold of the day. He stood up and, almost dropping the decanter, poured himself a glass of water, drank it in one second, then poured another. The paper was now lying on the burgundy colored carpet. He noticed it and immediately picked it up, carefully folding the letter into the inside pocket of his costume.
The sun peeked out golden from under a thin line of uncurtained glass. Like an insistent guest, it tried to come inside and touch the actor with its warmth. He opened the curtains, and his face seemed to brighten up as the warm light brushed over his tired features. Kids were running around on the street, and worried parents were hurrying after them, dragging the hooligans by the ears back to their home. Somewhere ahead, a mechanic was fixing a car. Ronald thought of his father. How he gave his all to his work here, and in return he perished in prison of some false accusations...
In no way in hell will Ronald repeat Scrooge's mistakes. He refuses to believe in it. As well as in the fact that the Golden Rose will meet its finis. This can not be, and will not be. At all costs, he will revive the theater. And no one will stop him from now on. No one will even dare!
Meanwhile, only a small corner of a black envelope was visible under the pile of papers.
Ronald seemed to forget about it, for now.