Chapter Text
“To love, to sleep, to-to- This line is still shit,” Peter sighs, glaring at the pages in his hands as if they’d personally offended him. “Nick, didn’t you want to come up with something better three weeks ago?”
Nick Bottom drags his gaze away from the little notebook he'd been frantically filling with notes, rubbing his eyes. Already the floorboards around him are covered in a mess of papers and pencils. “Yes, I know, I know, I’m sorry.” He rummages through the chaos, making an even worse mess in the process. “And I’ve been trying, okay? It’s just- it’s hard.”
“Oh, it’s hard,” Peter mocks.
“Leave him alone, Peter,” Bea growls, placing a supportive hand on Nick’s shoulder. As his best friend, she’s always the first to defend him against Peter’s temper. It helps that she’s also an aspiring lawyer with a strong sense of justice and no-bullshit attitude.
Her expression softens as she turns towards him. “Nick, doesn’t your pen pal have any helpful suggestions?”
Nick massages his forehead, leaving a giant splash of ink right between his brows. “No, we haven't had a chance to talk about that yet.”
“They haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet, because they were too busy writing each other love poems,” Peter jokes.
Some of the other guys snicker, despite Bea’s warning looks.
“Actually, they’re sonnets,” Nigel - Nick's little brother, only a quiet presence at the edge of the stage up until now - points out. He’s used to coming to the rehearsals with Nick, watching the performances or burying his nose in a book, if the play doesn’t strike his interest. “And they don’t really write them all that often. It’s usually just letters.”
Nick silences him with a glare. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this,” he snaps. “We’re friends!”
Peter leans onto the swords he’s holding, a big grin on his face. “Sure, friends who write each other love letters.”
“I-” Nick is just about to protest again when the door to the theatre flies open with a bang.
“It’s over!” Shylock, their producer, screams. He’s an old man, not quite as good on his feet as he used to be, but he still limps towards the stage with surprising urgency. “The play! It’s over!”
The players exchange worried glances.
Robin is the first of them to step forward. “What? Why?!”
Shylock raises the flyer he is clutching. “Shakespeare is doing Richard II!”
If he was hoping for a dramatic reaction, he gets his wish the second time, as the troupe immediately breaks into indignant chatter.
“But aren’t you also doing Richard II?” a wide-eyed Nigel asks Bea.
Amidst the chaos, Nick manages to push his way to the front, where Shylock shows him the elegant flyer for Shakespeare’s new film about ‘the life and death of Richard II’. Nick gets the strong urge to crumple the paper. Or maybe set fire to it.
“What is this? Didn’t he just do Richard III?” he questions. “Why is he doing Richard II now? Who goes backwards?”
Shylock shrugs. “But if Shakespeare is doing it, we can’t do it.”
Nick huffs, pushing the flyer back into his hands. “Who cares what they do? This is our play!”
“No, Shylock is right,” Robin pipes up. “If we do this now, we’ll look like losers. Or like we stole the idea from him.”
Nick crosses his arms. “More like he stole it from us.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe he even has time for this. Isn’t he too busy screwing every half-decent person in London?”
“You’re just jealous because his plays are better than yours and nobody wants to screw you,” Peter says.
The other guys giggle.
Nick sends him a glare. He runs a tired hand through his hair. “Okay, so who is going to tell Clapham?”
The giggling dies instantly.
Their patron Clapham - or Lord Clapham as he insists, as his father is some distant relative of a long-forgotten royal bloodline - is not exactly known for being easily persuaded. In fact, he’s threatened to cut their funding for a lot less. Still, they’re glad to have his support despite their ongoing failure to produce a hit, Nick supposes.
He sighs. “What-what if this is a good thing, actually? I mean, with the announcement of the film a lot more people will be aware of the topic now. We could ride the publicity wave,” he suggests. “Wasn’t this why we wanted to do Richard II in the first place? To use the interest his Richard III generated?”
Bea nods. “Yeah, and anyway we’ve all put so much work in this already. Wouldn’t it be a shame if none of us got any recognition for it?”
Any money for it, she doesn’t say. Well, not like any of the others have to worry about that anyway. They’ll get paid no matter what piece they end up playing. It’s just Nick who will be tricked out of his money. Again. And they’ve been barely treading water for the last couple of weeks. His stomach gives an uncomfortable squeeze.
“No, no,” Shylock cuts in. “Clapham is never going to have that. You know how obsessed he is with the idea of staging ‘something original’.”
“But-” Nick starts.
“You know Clapham, Nick,” Robin agrees.
“No, but what if-”
“It’s useless, man,” Peter says.
Nick clenches his jaw. He knows they’re right, which makes the whole thing even more frustrating.
“I’ll talk with him, Nick,” Shylock promises, squeezing his shoulder. “And I’ll take some of my own funds to tidy us over until the situation is cleared. But-” he sighs, “if Clapham says we’re not doing Richard II, then there is really not a lot I can do. Even my resources aren’t enough to get us through another box office crash.”
He gives them all a timid smile. “We’ll reconvene on Friday. Perhaps we can come up with something new until then.”
“Why do you hate Shakespeare so much?” Nigel asks when they step out into the cold London air.
Nick sighs, kneeling to tighten the coat around Nigel’s shoulders. His hands linger as he tries to think of some way to explain the situation without giving away too much. Or without sounding like a complete lunatic. “I- it’s complicated,” he finally settles on.
Nigel hums. “Didn’t you used to be friends?”
Nick takes Nigel’s small hand in his, leading them down the road towards the library. It’s the place they spend most of their free time at, motivated mainly by their central heating and free Wi-Fi. Besides, there are more than enough books for Nigel to read while Nick is busy working.
“That was a long time ago,” Nick says.
He isn’t sure whether he would say that he and Will were ever really friend per-se. They used to know each other, sure. But ‘being colleges and not friends’ is not the kind of concept you can easily explain to a seven-year-old. And that’s not even counting the fact that Nick would have much rather cut off his own leg than be friends with William Shakespeare.
In all his years as a writer, Nick has never met another person who was so self-absorbed and blind to the problems of others. No wonder then, that Will became a famous film star.
Nick would say he isn’t bitter, but he would be lying. The only positive thing about it might be that he no longer has to see Will’s face every day. Except for on the glossy pictures that seem to adorn ever other bus.
“But you’re both writers,” Nigel insists, as they enter the building.
Nick gives the secretary – her name is Rosy - a friendly nod. “Yeah, but we’re…different writers,” he says as he heaves Nigel onto one of the many sofas.
“What do you mean?”
Nick sighs. Where to start this long list? With how William Shakespeare probably never has to worry about his films getting cancelled? How William Shakespeare never has to visit the local library to keep his electricity bill to a minimum? How William Shakespeare always seems to find the exact right words while Nick can’t even finish one damn monologue?
“We’re-we just write very differently,” he says instead.
Nigel hums. “His words make me all tingly inside. They’re so nice.”
Nick chooses not to comment, instead draping his jacket over Nigel’s legs.
Sometimes he wonders what he did to deserve a brother who seems more infatuated with William Shakespeare’s works than he ever was with his own. On the other hand, he can’t really be angry with Nigel, when that work is what gave him comfort in a situation much too big for a boy his age. And if William Shakespeare’s words are what makes Nigel smile for the first time in weeks, then Nick will be damned if he doesn’t let Nigel have them.
Nigel rubs at his eyes giving a gigantic yawn. “Nick, can you read that scene from Hamlet to me again?” he asks.
Nick looks over at his busted-up Laptop and the work he still has to do. He feels the uncertainty of the play hanging over him like a dark cloud. Usually, his other job is barely enough to get them through the month. But the rent is coming up in a few weeks and Nigel needs new clothes. Without the pay he was going to get for the play, Nick doesn’t know how to shoulder all of it. It makes him sick to his stomach.
Then he looks into Nigel’s pleading eyes and the knot inside his chest loosens. He sighs. “Sure, buddy,” he says, sinking into the comfortable cushions of the sofa.
“He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again,” he starts to read, as Nigel snuggles up against his side.
Later when Nigel is sound asleep, his plushie crocodile tucked against his chest, Nick finally turns his attention to the little red notebook, sitting on a shelf to their right. It's hidden away in a corner, pushed so far back that - hopefully - no unsuspecting visitor will find it.
Nick strokes its familiar cover and can’t help but smile when he finds a new message on a previously blank page.
Dear friend,
I’ve read your extract and I have to admit it moved me quite a bit. There is a vulnerability to it that I didn’t think could be put into words before. I was thinking, you might want to include a scene where He contemplates his own mortality? That might tie in nicely with the previous themes.
All is well with me otherwise. Life just rolls along like the seasons in front of my window. And then suddenly I find myself another year older without really knowing what happened. Isn’t it weird, for example, to think that it’s been nearly six months since I left this book in the library only to find, on retrieving it, that some stranger had finished my monologue for me? It feels like it was only yesterday, and at the same time, like we've known each other forever.
I’ve included an extract below that I’ve been stuck on for a couple of weeks. Maybe you have other ideas that might end my struggles.
Your devoted friend
“Will, are you decent?” Henry’s voice calls through the door.
Will rolls his eyes, putting down his make-up long enough to call back a curt “Yes!”
Immediately, the door swings open.
“Will, I-” Henry let’s out a chocked sound as he takes in Will’s bare and sweaty chest. “Good lord man, I asked you if you were decent.”
Will flashes him a grin. “Well, I am.”
He and Henry - Henry Wriothesley III that is - have never quite seen eye to eye on these things. Where Will is flashy and flamboyant, Henry likes his wealth classy and stylish. For him, everything has to have its purpose and rate of return. It’s an obsession no doubt fuelled by his new money status and the constant need to justify his position among the old nobility. Even his name is a performance in that regard, as Henry’s father is actually called Richard, thus disproving the existence of a Henry Wriothesley I and II.
And while Will can sympathise with Henry’s struggles as a self-made man himself, he has never really understood the almost dull and emotionless way with which the other man goes about multiplying his wealth.
Henry gives him an unimpressed look. “I got your email. You wanted to talk?” As usual, he’s glued to the screen of his phone, probably answering emails, trading stocks or doing whatever it is his agency does. His mouth is making audible work of a nicotine gum, a habit he took up when he quit smoking several years ago.
“Oh, yes,” Will swivels around in his chair. “About Richard II, I-”
“Oh, don’t tell me you got that email too!” Henry says, rolling his eyes. “Will, it doesn’t matter. They hardly have a claim on British monarchs!”
“I-what?” Will frowns.
“Oh, so you didn’t see. It was just some guy- Bottom I think?” Henry makes a dismissive gesture. “Said we were stealing his play.
Will raises an eyebrow. Now, there is some name he hasn’t thought about in years. The last time must have been when he was still with his old troupe. Nick had been their resident writer before Will turned to writing himself. Will remembers him as a young man with a cute nose and unruly curls that was, unfortunately, also unbearably tedious to be around.
“Nicholas Bottom?” he asks, disbelievingly.
“Perhaps. It’s not important,” Henry says. “What is it you wanted to ask?”
“Oh, I-” Will swallows. He tries to recall the speech he devised in his head earlier. “I was thinking if instead of doing another tragedy it would be better if I did a comedy instead? You know, shake things up a little?”
Henry stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. “But people want to see a tragedy.”
Will groans, splaying out over his entire chair. “But it’s so tedious! Dadam dadam we’re all dead-” he sighs.
“You do realize that you don't have to kill them all, right?” Henry raises an eyebrow.
Will rolls his eyes. “I was just trying to make a point.”
“A point you should have made before we started promoting the damn thing, Will!”
“I know, I know.” Will rests his head on his makeup table, giving a defeated sigh. “If I have to do this, will you at least let me put in the gay stuff?”
Henry gives a dissatisfied chew. “We’ve been over this, Will. Nobody wants to see that! They come to be entertained, not for you to go all political on them!”
Will huffs. “It’s literally a film about the British monarchy. It doesn’t get any more political than that.”
“You know what I mean,” Henry says, before his attention gets drawn back to his phone by a loud chime.
“I do.” Will rummages around his stack of laundry for something decent to wear. “But there is nothing political about it.”
Henry sighs, setting down his phone, probably just to show how annoying Will is being. “Have you seen your audience? It’s like 90% women. How do you think are they’re going to feel when you say you’re only into men?”
“I’m bisexual!”
Henry rolls his eyes. “All the same.”
Will pulls on a shirt, fiddling with the cuffs for a moment. “Anyway, and it’s not like most of them don’t know already.”
Henry clicks his tongue. “But if you don't confirm it, they can trick themselves into thinking they don’t.”
He sighs, perching on the edge of Will’s chair. “Look Will, if you’re really so desperate to do something else, we can look into that theatre run again. You wanted to do that, didn’t you?” He gives Will’s shoulder a condescending pat. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. You do this, and we find you some nice theatre company that is willing to put up with you for half a year? How does that sound?”” He grins. “Surely it can’t be that hard to write one little script.”
Will sighs.
The problem has always been, that he likes being famous. He enjoys the free drinks, the people that come up to him in the street to ask him for a photo. He enjoys the nice clothes, the tasty food, the lights, the attention and the cameras pointed at him.
And Henry is what made him famous. Writing is what made him famous. So what, if he sometimes doesn’t even remember why he wanted to start doing it in the first place?
Because what would he be without this arrangement? Just another sad middle-aged loser who people pity for having been famous once. The spent B-list celebrity who will endure any humiliation for even the tiniest fraction of his old success.
No, he’d rather burn out then fade away. And it’s not like this is something a bit of alcohol and good sex can’t fix anyway.
“Well, it is kind of hard if you don’t actually want to write it,” he mumbles, even though he knows he’s lost this fight already.
Henry rolls his eyes, pocketing his phone. “You’ll manage.” He pushes open the door, giving a dismissive wave. “Just steal something from your book friend or something.”
The door falls shut behind him, and Will finally allows his shoulders to sack. For a moment, he indulges in a round of self-pity. Then he grabs his bag, pulling out a small, red notebook. Its familiar weight manages to calm him instantly.
Dear friend,
How about instead of tombstones he says epitaphs? Otherwise, I can only return the compliment. Your writing moves me like little else does.
And I do understand your sentiment. To me it also feels like we’ve been exchanging these letters forever. This book has become such a constant companion that I sometimes miss its presence when it’s with you.
My life has been…complicated recently. There is trouble on the horizon and I’m not sure if I’m ready to weather it. I’ll spare you the details as it will probably be much too personal anyway. Maybe- hopefully- everything will turn out okay.
(」°ﾛ°)｣ 𓆌
(I apologize but Nigel drew this while I wasn’t looking. I suppose I never told you about him – funny how these things work - but he sends his greetings. He says it’s supposed to be a king getting eaten by a crocodile.)