Work Text:
He's not sure how long it takes them to get to Bolaire.
Perhaps twenty seconds?
However long it takes, it's clearly far, far too long.
When Hal puts him on, so very, very gently, he expects it, whatever it consists of, to be immediate.
It isn't.
There is a stage. But the lamps are off. The seats empty. He frowns, and wanders backstage.
A field. Glass figures, a mask, begging them not to put him in the box, in the dark. A war. A camp. A hall. A war. A field. A camp. A camp. A camp. War's that come and go so quickly there's no point in being anything other than which they want from you. He stops begging, after a while. Stops everything after a while. A weapon doesn't need an opinion, after all.
(BOLAIRE wasn't made to be a weapon, he tells himself, whenever they leave him awake long enough to remember.)
And then there's a play. He's never seen a play. Not one that he's not been a part of, at any rate. He even manages something that isn't numb.
Objectively, it's shit.
It's also the first thing he's ever seen that isn't a war. He's enamoured instantly.
There is an orc, watching on in horror. He's the only other thing that isn't glass, aside from the clay.
The clay stumbles towards him, which is impressive, seeing how the clay doesn't have legs.
There is another play. A better play.
(It is the first of HALANDIL FANG'S work that BOLAIRE has ever had the honour to watch.
It is far from his last.)
(It pulled him out of the numbness he'd retreated back into. The numbness was easy, see. It means he doesn't have to think about all the times where he doesn't get the luxury of choosing who pulls him out of THE DARK.)
(But there had been a playwright, so delighted to speak about his work.
BOLAIRE had fallen for him almost immediately. Not immediately, mind, because that sort of thing only happens in the plays, and BOLAIRE LATHALIA has no intention of ever performing in another play again if he can help it.)
(He glances up at his HAL, sorry to have to leave, only to realise that this is no mere glass mirage. This is HALANDIL FANG, real and true.)
(Which is embarrassing, because BOLAIRE'S clawed his way out of the panic enough that his usual way of interacting with the stage is asserting itself onto HAL'S mind.)
BOLAIRE (weakly)
..... Don't suppose you could forget you know, well, any of that, my dear?
HAL
(Arms crossed. He isn't letting this go.)
You know I'm not going to do that.
(A beat, before, softly:)
How much faster are things moving up here than they are out there, Bolaire?
(Long enough to have a conversation, certainly.
But if HAL wants to use him-)
(A war. A war. A war. A war.
He was not made to be a weapon. So why does it come so easily to him?
THE DARK, again. Always, always, back into to THE DARK.)
(He's so tired of being a weapon, HAL.)
(He's tired of THE DARK, too, but THE DARK is not like being a weapon. He cannot simply run from it. THE PUPPET'S wear out, no matter how good the care he shows them is. They wear out faster the more he pulls from THE SCRIPT, and he gets the feeling he'll need to keep pulling from THE SCRIPT as time goes on.
This stand of theirs against these TYRANTS will not be won in one night, no matter how he might wish it.)
(No, this stand of theirs is a movement. Ousting the TYRANT'S will only stick if they gather the support of the PEOPLE first. Otherwise, it's just TYRANT on top of TYRANT on top of TYRANT, and have THE DIRECTIVE'S stopped harping on yet, or would they like him to hammer the point home some more?)
(No? Good. They've been giving him a headache.)
(- as he has been used in the past, then that will take an hour out on the stage.)
HALANDIL
(Quietly. Angrily, too.)
I'm choosing not to take offence at that suggestion, Bolaire, because even as you were suggesting it you were spiralling.
HAL
(A beat, while he parses the previous directions in his speech.)
I'm not angry, Bolaire, I'm just... I'm worried.
(Pained laugh. That's THJAZI's work, alright.)
About a lot of things. Not just my brother's apparent disregard for everything I've built. And right now, I'm worried about you Teacup.
(Teacup.
Teacup? He's trying to decide if he should be offended or not, HAL.)
HAL
(Huffed laughter.)
I don't mind talking to an empty stage, but this isn't even a soliloquy, Teacup, there's no audience.
(Huh. When did they get back to the stage?
Whatever.)
BOLAIRE (amused)
Why Teacup?
(There is a mask in the audience. He is floating at head height, and resting his chin on a glass hand.)
HAL
(Mock wisely)
Because it's funny, obviously.
BOLAIRE
(A snort. Fondly.)
I should have guessed.
(HAL opens his mouth, hesitates.)
BOLAIRE (fond)
You might as well say it, before I get bored and go rummaging for it.
(He wouldn't. HAL knows that he wouldn't, right?)
[Of course he knows it, you fool of a Teacup, BOLARE.]
HAL
(Not looking at BOLAIRE. Quietly.)
I love you too.
(Oh. Um. BOLAIRE isn't quite sure what to say to that. He'd sort of hoped HAL had forgotten about that mortifying slip up of his stage directions. Um. Shit.)
(HAL knows romance.)
(BOLAIRE absolutely cannot ask HAL how to romance himself. For one thing, it's tacky.)
[HAL would, for the record, adore being asked how to romance himself. If his Teacup did want to ask. HAL might start, for example, by pointing out that he's been trying to romance BOLAIRE from that first coffee date. Date, BOLAIRE. As in, romantic outing. As in, the two of them could go out to the cafe on a specifically romantic outing. If BOLAIRE did want advice.]
(....)
(Okay so perhaps BOLAIRE could use some advice. What separates this date phenomenon from just going to the cafe like they normally do?)
[Honestly? The part where BOLAIRE'S going into it knowing it's a date.]