Chapter Text
The strangest part about all of this is that Joseph had chosen this elective for the entirely wrong reasons. He’d expected pretty girls, excessive makeout scenes and a minimal workload. What he hadn’t expected was this utter hell, with hours of rehearsals, line memorisation, vocal exercises, and people who took pretending to be other people far too seriously.
He’d planned to drop it a week in.
But before he could get out of there and quit, the director had already developed a liking for him. He was loud, expressive, handsome, and obscurely amazing at improvising. The director had watched him turn a painfully stiff scene into something alive and electric with barely a glance at the script, and from that moment onward, she refused to let him escape.
“Just give theatre a chance,” she’d insist, dragging him back to the burning pits of hell (also known as the stage). “You never know! You might really enjoy acting,” she said, patting his shoulder.
He’d laughed at her the first three times she’d insisted.
By the seventh, exhausted of her relentless imploring and slightly curious to see what performing was like, he stayed.
Which, eventually, led him to now.
They were putting on some dramatic romance tragedy set in the 1800s—the kind filled with elaborate gowns, extreme kissing, doomed love confessions, and at least one unnecessary death scene that was caused over some stupid argument.
The female lead was supposed to be tall, commanding, theatrical enough to dominate a stage, and capable of matching the male lead’s intensity without getting overshadowed. It was meant to be a contrast to the stereotypical dainty damsel in distress.
They’d been auditioning people for two weeks now, and everyone was losing hope. Every girl that auditioned just didn’t fit the role, whether it be bad chemistry with the male lead, awkward line delivery, or just a shyness that resulted in them bolting off the stage after a particularly suggestive line.
Meanwhile, Joseph had sat in the back, making snide commentary that no one had asked for.
“Jeez, if this was a porno, my dick would be as dry as a desert!”
“She sounds terrified.”
“She’s meant to be spirited, not constipated.”
Hours passed, and it seemed like none of the girls auditioning were up for the task.
“This script sucks,” Joseph groaned. “Why is everyone talking like they swallowed a dictionary? Seems like a bit much to me.”
“It’s the 1800s, Joseph,” a blond boy (Caesar, if Joseph recalled correctly) called from the costume table, a scowl on his face. “That’s how they spoke.”
“Well, they spoke stupidly,” Joseph announced with a frown.
Caesar rolled his eyes, focusing on the dress that he was embellishing with jewels.
“What? I’m helping.”
“You are the opposite of helping, Joseph.”
By the end of the fifth failed audition that day, even the director had grown bored. One actress stumbled through a painfully inordinate confession scene before rushing out in embarrassment, and the room fell into miserable silence. Groans and sighs were heard from everyone, to which Joseph only snorted.
“You lot are taking this too seriously,” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “I mean, really! It can’t be that hard to find one good actor.” He snatched the script out of the director’s hands.
He went to stand on the stage, cleared his throat, and smirked at everyone. “Oh, my love! How cruel this world is to keep us apart,” He declared, a hand on his chest as he put on a high-pitched voice.
A few people chuckled at his mockery.
But as he kept going, things began to flow. He moved naturally across the stage, every gesture exaggerated in exactly the right way for theatre without feeling forced. The lines that had sounded ridiculous moments ago suddenly felt alive. They had emotion behind them, depth.
Worst of all? He was good. He was too good.
By the time he’d finished, the room had gone quiet.
“Holy shit,” the director whispered, looking to the people beside her as if to make sure she was not imagining anything. They looked equally shocked.
She pointed at him, eyes wild. “That,” she cried. “Is my lead.”
Joseph froze, horrified. “Hold on,” he stammered. “I was joking.”
“Wonderful,” the director said, completely ignoring him. “Caesar, I need you to measure Jojo.”
“I am not wearing a dress. It wouldn’t even fit me!” Joseph said, frowning.
“We can tailor around it,” she assured him with a wave of her hand.
Caesar made a strangled noise somewhere beside the costume rack.
Joseph pointed at him immediately. “See? Blondie gets it.”
“I do not,” Caesar said weakly, still staring at him with the expression of a man witnessing a car that was heading straight for him. “I just think this entire production has become deeply cursed.”
Unfortunately for both of them, the decision had already been made.
Within the next few days, Joseph somehow found himself trapped in a blur of costume measurements, makeup tests, script revisions, and dance rehearsals. The director became terrifyingly efficient the second she smelled potential. Every attempt Joseph made to escape only seemed to strengthen her resolve.
“You signed the participation contract,” she reminded him sweetly when he threatened to drop the class.
“You can’t imprison me in the theatre,” he snapped.
“We’ll see,” she said with a sly smile, patting his back.
And Caesar, with his luck, got dragged into the situation too.
As head of costume design and one of the makeup artists, it was his job to deal with Joseph on a constant basis, designing all of the outfits he would require for each scene. This proved to be, undoubtedly, the worst experience of his life.
Joseph seemed to be unable to stand still for more than thirty seconds. To put it simply, he was a nuisance.
He stole props during rehearsals just to make people chase him.
He kept deliberately collapsing onto fainting couches and declaring himself “consumed by that one mouse disease.”
He interrupted serious scenes to improvise absurd lines that somehow still worked.
During rehearsal, he twirled so aggressively he nearly flew into the orchestra pit.
And of course, there were the costume fittings.
Caesar expected them to be humiliating. After all, Joseph was 6’5” (195cm) and had the body of a Greek god, which was not easy to make feminine.
But Joseph, annoyingly enough, looked good in everything. Whilst he didn’t look delicate or fragile like a woman, he was striking. Once the makeup artists softened some of his sharper features and styled his hair properly, it became genuinely unfair.
He was beautiful.
The first time Joseph stepped out wearing the full rehearsal costume—fitted dress, a necklace adorning his neck and glinting under the stage lights, dark curls framing his face—the entire room went quiet for a full three seconds.
“Oh,” Joseph grinned smugly, a hand on his chest and the other pushing up his hair. “You’re all in love with me.”
He sauntered back into his room, his hips swaying side to side aggressively. Every step practically screamed, look at me.
Which only made it worse, because Caesar was looking.
Against his better judgement, against his dignity, against every warning bell ringing violently in his head, his eyes followed Joseph automatically as he crossed the room. The heels clicked sharply against the floorboards, steady and deliberate, and the fitted costume shifted around his frame in a way that should not have been affecting Caesar nearly this much. He wasn’t gay. He didn’t like guys.
But God if that fabric didn’t make Joseph look unfairly appealing. It stretched over the expanse of his well-defined chest, and the size of his abs made it look like he had breasts (even without the breast forms).
Joseph glanced over his shoulder the moment he reached the mirror, and caught him staring.
A slow grin spread across his face immediately.
“Oh?” Joseph drawled, leaning one hand against the vanity, the other on his hip. “See something you like, Caesar?”
Caesar’s brain stopped functioning for approximately three full seconds.
“No,” he lied instantly, turning red and frowning.
Joseph only snorted. “You’re a terrible liar, Caesarino.”
“Don’t call me that,” he warned, rolling his eyes. “And I was looking at the stitching.”
“The stitching on my ass?” Joseph teased, raising an eyebrow.
Caesar nearly dropped the armful of costume fabric he was holding.
Joseph burst into laughter before he could answer, bright and victorious, clearly delighted by the damage he’d caused. This silence was better than any answer Caesar could have given. He turned back toward the mirror, adjusting an earring with infuriating calm while Caesar stood frozen behind him, ears burning and heart hammering in his chest.
* * *
During costume fittings, Joseph abruptly halted rehearsal halfway through a scene, complaining loudly about the state of his corset.
“This thing is sitting wrong,” he declared, tugging irritably at the fabric beneath his costume jacket. “It’s making me look broad instead of elegant. I look like somebody’s wealthy aunt.”
“You always look broad,” someone from the cast called out, earning them a few laughs.
Joseph pointed toward the stage without even checking who’d spoken. “Silence.”
Before the director could protest, he hopped down from the stage and disappeared backstage toward the costume room, dragging frustration behind him like a train.
Caesar barely looked up when the door burst open.
“I need help,” Joseph announced far too casually, already turning his back and lifting his arms slightly. He'd managed to slip the dress of as he was walking inside, so he'd been left in the corset and black boxer briefs. “Tie this properly. And don’t butcher it this time, okay?”
Caesar stared at him for a long moment, flustered at the sight of the man and his biceps, before he sighed.
“You are genuinely impossible,” he muttered, rising from his chair anyway.
Joseph grinned triumphantly at the mirror, like a child who'd managed to coerce their mom into getting McDonald's.
Caesar stepped behind him, gathering the loose corset laces between his fingers. The fabric was warm from stage lights and movement, the structured shape sitting tightly against Joseph’s waist beneath layers of costume.
“You’re like a child,” Caesar added under his breath as he began tightening the laces with practiced precision.
“As opposed to you?” Joseph scoffed. “You spend your free time sewing buttons back onto clothing and drawing pictures of costumes.”
“That is what I'm meant to do, Jojo.”
“That is called having no whimsy.”
Caesar ignored him and pulled the laces tighter.
Joseph inhaled sharply, fingers digging into his thighs.
“Careful,” he said lightly after a moment. “If you pull too hard, I might faint dramatically. Then you’ll have to carry me bridal-style in front of everyone. How romantic!”
“I would rather die,” Caesar replied.
Joseph laughed. “That can probably be arranged too. Perhaps you die, and I could kiss you and save you from an eternal slumber...”
Caesar yanks slightly harder than necessary out of sheer irritation, causing Joseph to become breathless. Joseph whimpers, which makes Caesar regret his decision almost immediately. The sound goes straight to his groin, making his pants uncomfortably tight and the room unbearably hot.
Joseph, thankfully, seemed too occupied adjusting the sleeves of his costume in the mirror to notice the sudden stiffness in Caesar’s posture.
Or perhaps he noticed entirely too much and simply chose not to comment.
Either option was dangerous.
Caesar finished tying the corset far quicker than before, securing the knot with sharp, efficient movements.
“There,” he said shortly. “Done.”
Joseph turned slightly, smoothing a hand over the fitted silhouette with obvious satisfaction.
“Oh, that’s much better,” he hummed. “See? You do care about me.”
“I care about the costume looking correct.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Caesar opened the door before Joseph could continue speaking and pointed firmly toward the hallway.
“Out.”
Joseph blinked innocently, clasping his hands. “You’re throwing me out? So soon?”
“You have rehearsal.”
“…You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are, Caesar!”
Caesar shoved him lightly out the doorway before he could say anything worse, his pants already tenting and making an obvious lump.
The door shut behind him with perhaps slightly more force than necessary.
From the other side, Joseph’s laughter echoed down the hallway for several seconds straight.
* * *
Joseph was sprawled dramatically across the stage floor during rehearsal break, one arm flung over his chest as though he’d just succumbed to some terrible illness. The overhead lights cast a warm glow across the polished wood beneath him, though Joseph behaved as if he were suffering beneath the weight of divine punishment itself.
“This is abuse,” he cried miserably, a pout on his lips. “I’m being overworked and severely under-appreciated.”
Nearby, Caesar sat cross-legged at the edge of the stage with a clipboard balanced against his knee, absently reviewing notes on Joseph's dress ("too tight in the back", "puffy in the front"). He didn’t even bother looking up at first. Joseph’s theatrics had become such a frequent occurrence, and Caesar had learnt that reacting only encouraged him further.
“You’ve been lying there for nearly twenty minutes,” Caesar reminded him dryly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite himself.
Joseph let out a wounded gasp.
“I am emotionally exhausted,” he corrected, pressing the back of his hand dramatically to his forehead. He even brushed away an imaginary tear afterward, clearly attempting to gather sympathy points from anyone willing to spare him attention.
No one did.
Caesar turned another page. “You were flirting with the lighting crew five minutes ago.”
“That,” Joseph replied immediately, pointing accusingly from the floor, “was networking.”
Caesar finally glanced over at him then, blue eyes narrowing with quiet amusement.
“You flirt with anything that has a pulse.”
Joseph gasped again, this time with even greater offence. He threw an arm over his eyes in mock despair before peeking out from beneath it, grin crooked and infuriatingly smug.
“Jealous?”
Caesar rolled his eyes, though the faint smile lingering at his mouth betrayed him somewhat.
“I couldn’t care less.”
Joseph laughed softly at that, smirking. His laugh was bright, warm, entirely too pleased with himself. Even now, exhausted and sprawled inelegantly across the stage in partial costume and smudged makeup, he somehow carried himself like he belonged beneath a spotlight. He shifted slightly onto one elbow, curls falling messily into his face.
It was deeply irritating. Just looking at Joseph gave Caesar's stomach butterflies. It wasn't fair for a man to be so gorgeous, and it certainly wasn't okay for him to look at a man with love.
Caesar looked back down at his notes before Joseph could notice him staring for too long and with too much fondness.
Unfortunately, Joseph noticed everything.
* * *
Joseph was half-dressed in costume yet again, standing near the mirrors with one sleeve hanging loose while he fought viciously with the other. Layers of expensive fabric draped around him in various states of completion, dramatic enough to satisfy the director’s obsession with historical accuracy and, unfortunately, dramatic enough to make movement mildly unbearable.
“This thing is criminal,” Joseph complained loudly, tugging at the fitted sleeve with visible offence. He tried to loosen it, which was a hopeless task. “Seriously. Who designed this? A sadist?”
“That would be you,” Caesar replied without looking up from where he sat pinning the hem of another costume piece.
Joseph paused mid-struggle, frowning deeply.
“Excuse me?”
“You insisted on ‘maximum dramatic effect,’” Caesar reminded him smoothly. “Which, translated into normal human language, is simply code for suffering.”
Joseph immediately opened his mouth to argue.
Unfortunately for him, Caesar was faster.
“Don’t even start,” he interrupted calmly, not bothering to glance up yet. “You don’t get to complain when you actively chose this aesthetic.”
For a moment, silence settled between them.
Then Joseph grinned.
“Oh,” he said slowly, amusement curling through his voice, “you’re in a mood today.”
Only then did Caesar finally look up.
His expression remained composed, though faint irritation lingered beneath it in a way Joseph had become strangely skilled at noticing.
“I’m always in a mood,” Caesar replied dryly. “You simply talk over it most of the time.”
Joseph barked out a laugh at that, bright and unrestrained.
Caesar rose from his seat regardless, stepping closer to fix the twisted fabric gathered near Joseph’s shoulder. His movements were practiced by now. Joseph fell quiet for a second. Not entirely quiet, of course. Joseph was seldom entirely quiet. But quieter.
His eyes lingered on Caesar a touch too long as Caesar adjusted the seam.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Joseph admitted.
“I’m good at most things,” Caesar replied casually, smug. “Unlike you.”
Joseph made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a wounded growl.
“I’m good at many things, I’ll have you know.”
Caesar hummed in clear disagreement before deliberately poking him with the blunt end of a needle.
Joseph recoiled immediately. “Ow! Asshole!”
“Stand still, Jojo.”
“You stabbed me! On purpose, no less!”
“It barely touched you.”
“You assaulted a leading actor moments before opening week,” Joseph declared dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “This scandal will ruin the production.”
Caesar rolled his eyes, though amusement flickered briefly across his expression.
“You’ll survive.”
Joseph narrowed his eyes suspiciously before leaning slightly closer, lowering his voice as if sharing some grave secret.
“You enjoy bullying me.”
Caesar smirked, poking him again, which earned him a groan from Joseph.
* * *
Over time, somewhere between exhausting rehearsals and late nights spent backstage beneath harsh fluorescent lighting, Caesar and Joseph had developed a liking to one another.
It happened so gradually that neither of them noticed it at first.
Caesar, who had initially found Joseph insufferable, slowly realised he no longer dreaded the sound of his voice echoing through rehearsal halls. Joseph’s incessant rambling, his dramatic complaints, his relentless commentary... all of it had once felt like a personal attack against Caesar’s patience. Yet now, more often than not, Caesar found himself quietly amused instead of irritated.
He caught himself listening for Joseph without meaning to.
Listening for the familiar sound of loud laughter from across the stage. Listening for the endless stream of nonsense Joseph didn't seem capable of suppressing for longer than a minute. Even his terrible jokes had become strangely endearing.
Which was deeply unfortunate.
Joseph, meanwhile, discovered that Caesar’s company was far easier to enjoy than he cared to admit aloud. Beneath the sharp remarks and air of disapproval, Caesar possessed a quiet sort of charisma that drew people toward him naturally. He carried himself with effortless confidence, speaking smoothly even when teasing others, and moved with such calm precision that it was difficult not to stare sometimes.
Not that Joseph would ever admit to staring.
Still, he found himself lingering backstage longer than necessary whenever Caesar was around. He’d sit beside him during rehearsal breaks, talking endlessly while Caesar pretended not to listen. He sought out Caesar’s reactions instinctively after performances, finding himself oddly pleased whenever he managed to draw out one of those rare, genuine smiles.
And Caesar smiled around him more often now.
Caesar adjusted Joseph’s costumes without needing to ask. Joseph stole drinks from Caesar’s desk and acted offended whenever Caesar complained.
They bickered constantly, flirted carelessly, and occupied each other’s space so naturally that the rest of the cast had long since stopped questioning it.