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The first rule of Drama Club is: You do not talk about Drama Club.
The second rule of Drama Club is: You do not talk about Drama Club.
The third rule of Drama Club: Someone forgets their lines, drops out of character, yells cut, the act-off is over.
Fourth rule: At least two per act-off.
Fifth rule: One act-off at a time.
Sixth rule: No fake tears, no over-acting.
Seventh rule: Act-offs will go on as long as they have to.
And the eighth and final rule: If this is your first night at Drama Club, you have to act.
He walks into the club's basement right as we're finishing up Shakespeare's Richard III. Martin watches him with a little frown, assessing. He's taller than Martin, and toned in a way Martin can only dream of. He's bald but sports an impressive beard. Overcompensating, Martin would say, but the beard does suit him.
Martin waits for the act-off to end before approaching the newcomer. "Welcome to Drama Club," he says, smiling that smile of his that says I-don't-know-if-I-like-you-yet. He holds out his hand, and the stranger shakes it with a smile. Firm grip, but nothing more than that. Martin's smile turns slightly more friendly. "What's your name, and how did you find us?"
"Graham McTavish. I'm a friend of Jed's." The Scottish accent is surprising and washes pleasantly over me. But Martin doesn't react to it.
"Do you have any experience in acting? We only accept amateurs." We don't see eye to eye on that -- I think anyone who wants to should be allowed to join, but Martin feels that allowing professionals would defeat the purpose. Personally, I think Martin is bitter that his acting career never took off.
It's not a problem in this case anyway, because Graham shakes his head and Martin smiles approvingly. "Have you read our rules?" The subsequent nod is a bit more wary, and Martin quickly pounces. "I don't care if they seem stupid to you, we take them very fucking seriously here. If you feel differently, I'm sure you can find your way back to the door."
Graham's eyebrows steadily climbed at Martin's aggression, but he holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "I meant no disrespect."
"We'll see about that," Martin mutters, and both Graham and I can read the reluctant acceptance in it. "We're starting Macbeth next week. Sign up for a part with Adam over there. You'll be acting next time, so make sure you bring a costume."
Martin always insists on being in the first act-off of any newcomer. Graham chose to be Banquo, so of course Martin chooses the banquet scene and takes on Macbeth.
I try not to stare too much, but it's hard not to. Graham had been wearing a fairly loose shirt the first time I saw him, and it did a good job of hiding everything. But now he's clad in a long-sleeved, well-fitted shirt and leather pants that seem almost tailored to him. The tight sleeves show off his muscled arms and broad shoulders, and the pants leave little to the imagination. He looks comfortable in his own skin, and I envy him that.
Martin plays Macbeth as well as he plays any character he chooses to take on, and Graham manages to portray Banquo's ghost to eerie perfection. When the scene ends, they both bow towards their audience, and Martin gives Graham a friendly clap on his back once they straighten.
It's his stamp of approval, and everyone cheers loudly.
"Alright, let's get on with it you lazy fuckers!" Martin finally yells, and the others quickly gather and await their turn in the spotlight.
I watch the act-offs as avidly as I always do, but my eyes often stray to Graham. And sometimes, during quiet moments where nothing is happening, I think I see him watching me as well.
The rest of the time, he observes Martin with evident curiosity.
I'm a little surprised when Graham makes the first move, almost a month after he joins Drama Club. He's friendly and confident with heat simmering underneath when he asks Martin out for a drink. Martin accepts, and we both know how the evening will go from there.
Martin is as aggressive and assertive in bed as he is outside of it, but Graham easily gains control of the situation. Martin leaves red scratches on his back, and they fuck hard enough the neighbors could hear them.
I am an early riser, and am already on my second cup of tea when Graham stumbles blearily into the kitchen. I smile warmly at him, then wince a little at the purple bruises I can see at his neck and shoulder. "Coffee?" I offer, and he nods gratefully. I add sugar and milk the way I've seen him do, and he takes the mug with a yawn and a murmured thank you. I turn back to the stove, stirring the scrambled eggs a few more times before taking the pan off the heat. I quickly divide the eggs on two plates, add a few slices of toast, and set one before Graham before taking my own seat.
We eat in silence for a little while -- companionable, I think, but it's difficult to be sure. Graham looks like he's chewing on something other than his eggs on toast, but it's not my place to ask.
He leaves soon after, with another one of those inscrutable looks.
Graham stays over more and more as the weeks go by. He seems to get along well with Martin, for the most part. He doesn't mind the incessant cussing or the attitude, but sometimes he wears an expression that is a little weary, and a lot worried. Martin never asks about it, though -- he was never the sensitive, caring type.
The nights may be Martin's, but the morning afters are mine. We chat easily about our respective jobs, the club, things playing on the telly nowadays. Graham has a rich laugh, and he lets it out often. It makes me feel better about my bad jokes and unwitty remarks, because his laughter is never mocking or cruel.
It hits me a few weeks later, when we're giggling over a particularly ridiculous article in the morning paper. I look at Graham, take in the sight of him, and realize what the warm feeling that spreads through me whenever we spend time together is. My laughter dies out, and Graham glances at me, suddenly quiet too. "Alright there?" he asks gently, worriedly.
I stare at him helplessly, because I can't possibly explain this. I am falling for him, but the one Graham likes is Martin.
Martin has a t-shirt that he wears occasionally, to serve as a reminder. Don't be a Richard, the slogan says. Most of the time, it's simply funny, a tiny private joke.
Except when it's not.
I stifle a yawn as I scan the new sign-up sheet. Most people have gone home already, including Adam and, hopefully, Graham. We haven't had an in-depth conversation since my sudden epiphany, even though Graham has still been coming by almost every night. But I've started leaving the house earlier, after putting his breakfast on the table, and I know he's been waiting for a chance to talk to me. But I'm too worn, too exhausted. I've been sleeping badly, and talking to him now would be too dangerous. I look at the sheet again, and finally find his signature next to King Lear. I have to smile. He will make a good Lear, no doubt about it.
There aren't a lot of characters left, but Albany is still open and, after another yawn, I blearily scribble my signature next to it.
"You've been avoiding me."
The pen clatters to the desk and I whirl around to find Graham standing close behind me. He uncrosses his arms and comes even closer, and I find myself inadvertently scurrying backwards. His frown deepens and he stops at the desk. "I was just--" I stammer, glancing at the floor to avoid his piercing blue eyes. "I've been busy, that's all."
His fingers tilt my chin upwards, and the look in his eyes makes me shiver. There is a hint of anger there, yes, but it's the disappointment that hurts so much more. "Bullshit," he says, quietly, and I flinch then, away from his accusing eyes.
"I have to go," I mumble, and almost run towards the exit. I hear a quiet "fuck" behind me, and then a louder, "Wait!", but I ignore both and keep running.
I seek out the sanctuary of my kitchen, but only get ten minutes to myself before I hear the sound of a key in the lock. Of course -- Martin gave Graham a key to the front door weeks ago.
He heads straight for me, expression strangely calm despite the stormy look in his eyes. He backs me against the sink, traps me between his arms. I stare at my shoes but can feel his eyes on me.
His hand gently touches my chin and turns my face towards his. "Stop hiding," he tells me, and then his lips are on mine and everything else slips away.
Eventually, he leads me to my bedroom and slowly strips me. His hands are soothing, gentle, and my breath stutters as he comes to lie over me. Fire trails from his fingertips and I soon stop thinking at all.
The guilt only hits me a few hours after the fact.
I don't know how long I've been sitting here when Graham finally walks in. He takes a seat across from me, and my hands fiddle with my teacup, lifting it to take a sip. I grimace -- the tea is stone cold.
"I think it's time we talked, don't you?" Part of me wants to say no, but I know it for the childish urge it is and sigh instead. "Why did you run off last night?"
I can't suppress the snort. "Why do you think?" I mutter, but he stays silent and I finally force myself to meet his eyes. "To try and prevent what we ended up doing."
Graham looks unconvinced and confused, and I set down the cup a little harder than I meant to. "It shouldn't have happened," I say harshly, "it wasn't fair to either of us."
I expect an explosive reaction from him, but all he does is reach for my hand. I stiffen, and his grip tightens. "What isn't fair," he softly says, "is that you've been avoiding talking to me without telling me what's wrong. Is it-- something I did?"
He looks genuinely worried, perhaps even a little pained. It's not an expression I am used to seeing, not from Graham -- self-assured, in-control, comfortable-in-his-own-skin Graham. "No, it's not you. It's me, this situation, I--" Something is trying to crawl up through my throat, and I fight it back down. "You wouldn't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
I blink at him, trying to come up with something to say. My mind won't cooperate, and my gut tries to convince me that telling Graham the truth wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. I don't want to do that -- I couldn't possibly face his condemnation. But he continues to stare at me, expecting an answer.
"It isn't me you like," I finally let slip, and then stifle a gasp when I realize what I've done.
Graham looks wary. "What is that supposed to mean?"
A dozen lies flit through my mind, but I'm too tired suddenly. "I'm not the one you're interested in, am I? Sure, we spent a few pleasant mornings together, but the one you really like is Martin. Not me." Never me.
There's a strange look of fear in Graham's eyes. He lets go of my fingers and sits back, and I just stare at him. His hand slips into his pocket, and comes back up with a piece of paper that he slides towards me. It's the sign up sheet for King Lear, but I don't understand why he acts like it's significant. Then his fingers tap next to my signature, and I suddenly feel incredibly cold.
"I was angry, at first, because I thought you'd been lying to me. I never thought..." He trails off, and I suddenly can't bear to sit there and watch him pity me anymore. I shove back the chair and quickly get up, fully intent on barricading myself in the bathroom until he leaves.
But Graham is stronger than me, and faster than me, and he has my wrist trapped before I can take two steps. "Mart-Richard," he pleads, "please, don't leave, I'm sorry." I still can't look at him and he seems to understand that, because he lets me turn away from his kind, blue eyes. His arms come around me from behind and he squeezes gently as his chin settles on my shoulder. "You don't have to face this alone," he whispers soothingly to my ear. "I care about you, all of you, and I won't desert you just because you're not well."
I am sure he meant his words to be a comfort, but my heart feels heavier than ever. Of course he thinks there's something wrong with me -- what normal person wouldn't?
"I'll help you," he continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil, "we'll find the best doctors, the best help, and whether you stick around or Martin does, I'll be there for you." There are more words and reassurances, but something seems strange. I pull on the arms enfolding me and Graham presses closer for a moment until I make it clear that I only want to turn around.
"Why would only one of us stay?" I ask him, and his fingers lift to gently smooth away my frown.
"I don't know much about multiple personalities, but I think, after treatment, only one of you can remain. I'm sorry," he says, painfully earnest and worried. "I know it must be hard, but I promise it'll be alright."
What?
"No, hold on," I protest, pushing against his chest until he takes a step back. "You think I have an identity disorder?"
He goes still, seems almost scared to answer. I gape at him. "I'm not crazy!"
"Of course not," he soothes, but I know he's only humoring me, and I'm beginning to feel a bit outraged.
"Martin Freeman is a character, Graham."
He falls deathly quiet. "A character," he finally repeats, and I nod. The anger is ebbing away, and I'm more than a little afraid of his reaction.
He could finish the job of breaking me so easily, and he doesn't even know it.
"So you're Richard Armitage, but you pretend to be someone called Martin Freeman." I nod again. "Why?" he asks, bewildered, and I cast my eyes downward with a small shrug.
"It's easier sometimes," I mumble. "Martin is-- he's funny, and outgoing, and confident, and so many other things I'm not." I look at him as my arms come to curl around my midriff. "You took notice of Martin, but you wouldn't have given me a moment's thought."
"That's bullshit," he says flatly. I snort and turn away, but he pulls on my arms until I face him. "Marti-- no, blast it, Richard, listen to me. You piqued my interest because there was this-- contrast about you. First you would command everyone's attention, cussing like a sailor and strutting around, but then when people weren't looking at you, you would be calm, and quiet and drawn back. It was intriguing, even more so when we started going out."
"But that is exactly what I mean! Don't you see?" It hurts to think about it, but being unable to face reality has never been one of my many failings. "You were going out with Martin, not with me. He's the one you're attracted to."
Graham snorts softly. "Do you know what I liked most about our time together?" I mutely shake my head. "The mornings after. Right here, in this kitchen, when we just talked." His fingers come up to gently brush over my cheek, and I shiver. He cups my face, leans in to kiss me softly, just once. "And last night."
"I thought you liked Martin's aggression." My arguments are starting to sound weak, and he smiles as if he knows how close I am to giving in.
"I tolerated Martin's aggression," he gently corrects.
I waver as his thumb rubs soothing circles over my cheekbone. "I don't--"
He cuts me off with a kiss so intense that I gasp, and he takes advantage and slips his tongue in. I close my eyes and ride the wave of pure emotion, following his lead, letting him take control. When he finally lets go, I can't remember what I meant to say, and give it up for lost when he smiles at me.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Richard," he mumbles, and I cling to his shoulders and bury my face in his shoulder. He folds me close against him, murmuring soothing nonsense until I stop feeling like I can't breathe. My lips are right next to his neck, and I let my tongue dart out to sneak a taste. He chuckles lowly, and I finally draw back.
He is smiling, looking at me, and I smile back. Maybe I can do this, after all.
Martin doesn't completely disappear. He has Drama Club to run, after all, and no matter what Graham thinks, I don't feel ready to take charge of it myself yet. But once we step through the doorway and exit the basement, Martin fades away and leaves the two of us alone.
The Don't be a Richard t-shirt miraculously disappears one day. I know Graham has something to do with it, mostly because of how he used to look at the thing. But he never says, and I never ask.
He does come home with a different t-shirt a few days later. It says, I'm a figment of my own imagination.
Martin never wears that one.