all hearts in love use their own tongues

Chapter 1: Act I

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Jonas

The rehearsal space was on the second floor of a youth center, in a room that was always a little bit too small and too cramped. Part of that was all the furniture they’d had to shove to one side in order to make enough room to perform, and part of that was the dozen or so people packed into it who wanted or needed to be there at any given point in time. Jonas had managed to develop an affection for the space anyway. Returning to the youth center meant preparing a new play, and theater had always been a way for Jonas to lose himself in different times and places, to absorb these beautiful English words, both foreign and familiar all at once. When he first had the opportunity to take part in it himself, he’d jumped on it as fast as possible. Getting to do something fun and creative was a welcome relief from the spreadsheets and emails he spent most of his day buried in.

“By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me,” Mathieu recited blandly in the best-lit half of the room, where the current scene was being rehearsed and blocked. He looked up from his script and towards Wout, who was refusing to meet his eyes several steps to his left.

“Do not swear,” Wout replied, also without feeling, ” and eat it.”

“Wait,” the director broke in. “This is a big confessional scene between the two of you. You should be closer together.”

Wout and Mathieu shot each other a look and shuffled a few steps towards each other. The discomfort between the two of them was palpable, as it had been for two whole seasons, ever since they’d both joined the Antwerp Queer Men’s Shakespeare Society and started competing for the same roles. The Society put on three shows a year, and for the previous two tragedies this season, Mathieu and Wout had split the lead roles between them, though it had been clear that they’d both been angling to play them both: Mathieu had taken Hamlet, and Wout had been Macbeth. When one of them had a minor role, it was easier for the two of them to manage that tension for the few scenes they shared, but now that they were Benedick and Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, all of their issues working together had come to a head. The dynamic was serviceable when their characters were bickering and at odds, but when they were supposed to be falling in love, it was less than convincing.

“Awkward,” Tadej muttered in a sing-song under his breath. He was sitting to Jonas’ left, slouching as best he could in their hard metal folding chairs. It was something Jonas never felt like he could get away with, even though they were technically equals in this production, with Tadej playing Claudio to Jonas’ Hero. Before Much Ado, Tadej had already had some big speaking parts — Rosencrantz in Hamlet, Macduff in Macbeth — while Jonas had focused on backstage work like sets and props and costumes. Jonas’ biggest speaking role before now had been Fleance in Macbeth, which only had two lines, but at least it was a named character compared to the servants, boys, and messengers he had usually taken on.

Jonas shifted, uncomfortable, in his own chair. They had just finished their own parts in the scene, which was one of the biggest in the entire play. Claudio accuses Hero of sleeping with another man based on a deception concocted by the dastardly Don John while their friends and family watch on. Tadej had been great, simmering with rage and hurt during their confrontation. Jonas felt stiff and wooden in comparison, unprepared for the challenge. He had only auditioned for the part on a whim. He hadn’t actually expected to get it.

Wout said, “You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.” He sounded like he was announcing that he needed more toilet paper.

Mathieu made an aborted gesture, like he had maybe attempted to grab Wout’s hand but then thought better of it. ”And do it with all thy heart.” He also sounded like they were talking about groceries. Normally, he brimmed with charisma and an easy chemistry with his co-stars, capable of lighting up even the modest local theater space they rented out for performances, but something about him and Wout in this scene, trying to convince the audience of their newfound love, mixed about as well as oil and water.

Tadej leaned over to whisper to Jonas, “Do you think they’ll get it together in time for opening night?”

Jonas did his best to muffle a laugh behind his hand. Wout was his friend, but even he had to admit that Wout’s attempts at adoration right now were excruciating. “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Jonas said in an effort to make up for his disloyalty earlier. Both Wout and Mathieu were excellent actors. They could probably figure out how to tolerate each other. Probably.

“Too bad we are stuck here having to watch,” Tadej said, eyes sparkling with mischief, but Jonas still felt a distinct unease at the mockery, even as lighthearted as it was. He still worried from time to time about what the others were saying about his casting behind his back, what sorts of criticism they might have about his acting skills or lack thereof. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip.

He tried to smile back at Tadej, but he could feel the strain in it.

Tadej seemed to pick up on his discomfort instantly. “Sorry,” he said. “That was mean.” He flashed Jonas a quick grin. It was a disarming smile, full of genuine sweetness and apology. Jonas felt certain he could have gotten away with anything as a child with a smile like that.

“We’re still only in the first week of rehearsals,” Jonas said. They’d had one full cast table read, and now they were doing deeper dives on individual scenes. “We’re all still getting a feel for these characters.”

Tadej cocked his head to the side, eyes focused on Jonas with an unsettling scrutiny. “You’re doing great,” he said, honing right in on the heart of Jonas’ insecurities. “But if you’re worried about it, we can run some scenes together outside of rehearsals.”

It was a generous offer, considering how much of their free time rehearsals already consumed, and Jonas could admit to himself that he would find the opportunity to work with a fellow actor useful, especially in a space where he didn’t have the eyes of the rest of the cast and crew on him, judging every fumbled word and awkward pause. “Sure,” Jonas replied. “I’d like that.”

Tadej’s smile somehow managed to get brighter. “Great! I’ll text you after rehearsal ends.”

Mathieu was kneeling on the hard, tiled floor now, a seemingly last-ditch attempt to bring a physicality that could fix all their other issues. “Come, bid me do anything for thee,” he said.

Wout barely glanced in his direction as he read from his script. “Kill Claudio.”

Tadej closed his eyes and let his head fall limp, sticking out his tongue in an exaggerated death mask, as if Beatrice’s words alone were enough to murder him.

This time, Jonas wasn’t able to stifle his laughter, which brought the whole scene to a halt again, much to everyone’s relief.

“I saw you getting cozy with Tadej earlier,” Wout said while they were stopped at a red light. His eyes were on the road in front of him, and he stated it without any sort of insinuation. That was one of the reasons why Jonas got along so well with him: Wout wasn’t inclined towards being pushy or demanding. He understood that there were things that Jonas liked to keep to himself, and in the presence of so many high-strung extroverts, Wout’s willingness to let Jonas be himself was a relief.

Jonas shrugged from the seat of his own bike. He and Wout lived in the same neighborhood, and it was simpler and easier for the two of them to bike to and from rehearsal together instead of relying on the buses or the tram. On the days when the weather was particularly miserable, Wout would give him a ride. Jonas said, “He offered to run lines outside of rehearsal.”

“That’s good, right?” Wout said. “He’ll help you feel more comfortable with the part.” Rehearsal let out late enough that it was dark out, but Jonas could still see Wout’s quick smile in the glow of the street lamps before the traffic light turned green again. Maybe Jonas should have been jealous of Wout, who was tall and handsome and took to the stage like he was born to it. But Wout had always been Jonas’ biggest supporter, even when Jonas was at his most nervous and uncertain. Wout had basically shoved Jonas into the audition for Hero while Jonas was dragging his feet outside the audition room. Jonas had also seen Wout at his lowest, his most vulnerable, and after being given that level of trust, it felt impossible to resent anyone.

“Yeah, I think it will be good,” Jonas said. He already had a text from Tadej on his phone asking what nights he would be free. The truth was that Jonas was free every night except for the ones when they had rehearsal, but he wasn’t sure if that sounded pathetic, so he hadn’t responded yet. He also didn’t want to think too hard about the flutter in his stomach he got at the idea of spending time alone with Tadej. He decided it was safer to change the subject. “How about you? I saw you talking to the director at the end of rehearsal. Did you get any good notes?” Wout loved getting notes, which was, from what Jonas could tell, somewhat unusual for actors. Whenever Jonas got the tiniest bit of criticism, it would consume his brain for days and weeks on end, but Wout only used it to fuel his relentless perfectionism.

This time, though, Wout’s lips pulled into a hard, flat line, and it wasn’t from the effort he was putting into pedaling. “He had concerns about the chemistry. Said that Mathieu and I needed to work on it or else he’d consider recasting one or both of us. Also mentioned that he expected better from us than to let personal feelings get in the way of our performances.”

“Wow,” Jonas said, startled. In the few years he’d been with the society, he’d never seen anyone get recast unless they had voluntarily dropped out for one reason or another. It seemed like a major threat to do so now, so early into rehearsals.

Wout let out a heavy sigh, and then he plastered on a very unconvincing smile for an otherwise very good actor. “We’ll figure it out,” he said in the same tone of voice generals used to tell their troops they were going to war.

Jonas didn’t know how he was planning on doing that when he and Mathieu could barely say more than two words to each other out of character, but he knew Wout well enough not to doubt him. Knowing Wout’s predilection for grinding through every bit of difficulty he faced by sheer force of will, he would convince himself that he was half in love with Mathieu by their first dress rehearsal if that’s what it took. But it was clear Wout didn’t want to talk about this anymore, so Jonas just tried to shoot him an encouraging smile and let the subject drop for the rest of their ride home.

Mathieu

It wasn’t that Mathieu hated Wout. Wout was a fine actor and a fine scene partner. He had a way of making his silences just as impactful as his line readings, and he never seemed bothered when one of the other actors wanted to try something experimental and risky, which was a waste of everyone’s time more often than not. But ever since their first season together, when Mathieu won the role of Prince Hal over him, Wout had treated Mathieu with a frosty politeness. It always set Mathieu’s teeth on edge. There was a hint of disdain to it, a kind of haughty superiority. Just because Wout had some boring nine-to-five corporate job that meant he had to go to bed early did not mean he had any right to judge Mathieu for hosting after-rehearsal drinks. (Not that Wout had said anything, but he didn’t have to. He could convey quite a bit in a single glance.) Some of them hadn’t been born forty years old and boring, and so what if Mathieu wanted to enjoy his youth while he still had it? He refused to feel ashamed.

For a lot of other roles, Mathieu might have just quit the whole production instead of being forced to pretend to want to suck face with Wout for three whole months, but Benedick was one of Shakespeare’s truly great romantic heroes. He had killer line after killer line, and then when things got difficult, he had a chance to show off his loyalty and bravery, the heart and kindness underneath his witticisms. Mathieu could deal with Wout’s bitch face if he got to play Benedick in front of an audience.

“He’s not that bad,” Tadej insisted. He ripped the corner off his cheese danish and shoved it into his mouth.

They were at the cafe closest to the youth center for Mathieu’s traditional pre-rehearsal coffee. Some people might have said that downing three full cups of coffee just before 7pm was excessive, but most people didn’t recite Shakespeare for three hours three nights a week. They’d picked the location for its convenience more than any of its other qualities, but its pastries were good, and its coffee was an adequate vehicle for consuming caffeine. Mathieu took a big gulp of his coffee and glared at him. “He doesn’t know how to smile. It’s a terrible condition to have as an actor.”

Tadej raised his eyebrows in a clear display of skepticism. “I have seen him smile plenty. It is a pretty smile. You just don’t like him.”

“He’s an asshole,” Mathieu grumbled as he tossed back another mouthful of his espresso. He missed Jasper. Jasper would definitely agree that Wout was terribly miscast as Beatrice and tell Mathieu that he was doing great despite all the shit everyone else was giving him. The pre-rehearsal coffee was a tradition that started during that first production of Henry IV, Part I. Mathieu and Jasper, his Falstaff, had become fast friends during it, and it was a good way to chat and hang out and get to know each other, develop their chemistry. Then during the run up to Hamlet, Jasper had invited Tadej as his Rosencrantz to his Guildenstern, and Tadej had been a permanent fixture since. Jasper was now off doing some sort of backpacking trip through Thailand for a few months, leaving Mathieu to deal with this clusterfuck alone. Well, with Tadej, who was being so unhelpful, he might as well have been alone.

“You’re an asshole,” Tadej said, and before Mathieu could protest, he continued. “We’re actors. We’re all assholes.” He reached out and gave Mathieu a condescending pat on the shoulder, even though he was younger than Mathieu. “Besides, Jasper tells me you have a weakness for assholes.”

Mathieu took back every nice thing he had ever said about Jasper. Jasper didn’t even know what he was talking about. Mathieu rarely saw anyone for more than a night anyway, not enough time for their assholery to become apparent. If pressed, he might admit he had a tendency to be drawn towards men and women who had a certain edge to them, a gleam in their eyes that said they’d get a little mean in bed, rough him up and leave him scratched and bruised and satisfied the next day. Not that it had any relevance to this conversation, because Wout gave off the impression that he was incredibly boring and vanilla. “Different kind of asshole,” Mathieu said, but he couldn’t help but remember what it was like to face off against Wout’s Hotspur, the way shivers ran down Mathieu’s spine every time he hissed out, Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come to end the one of us, right before their big fight scene.

“Of course,” Tadej said, still smiling, agreeable, “but he is still your problem, no?”

Mathieu wanted to say he had a plan for dealing with this, but he wasn’t good at plans. To be fair, there were many things Mathieu wasn’t good at. His father would probably say the only good thing that Mathieu was good at was spending his money, but Mathieu did his best to ignore what his dad said. Maybe Mathieu’s plan could be, ‘act so much better than everyone else (especially Wout), so that Wout would have to be the one recast.’ He didn’t have any better ones. It wasn’t like anyone could make him and Wout actually like each other. “Whatever,” he said. “How are things for you?”

Tadej immediately brightened. He loved to talk, and one of his favorite topics was himself. “Well, Jonas agreed to run lines with me,” he said, looking so blissful, he might as well have floated out of his chair. Tadej’s crush on Jonas was so massive it could be seen from space, though somehow Jonas himself had not seemed to notice it.

“Congratulations,” Mathieu said. Considering how miserable his own situation was, he was glad that this production was working out for Tadej. At least one of them deserved to be happy.

“Thank you. He laughed at my jokes,” Tadej said dreamily. “I got to see those pretty lines around his mouth.” Jonas was cute enough if you liked your men short, skinny, and Danish. That was not Mathieu’s type, so the appeal was lost on him.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have just asked him out before,” Mathieu pointed out. Tadej’s pining had been obvious, but somehow also restrained. Tadej rarely bothered with restraint when the alternative served him just as well if not better, so there must be something else going on.

“He’s just so quiet. I needed a reason to talk to him.” Tadej chewed on his bottom lip. His nerves showed like this, making him seem so much younger. It was the first indication that Mathieu had seen that this might be more than a simple crush. “Plus, he’s always hanging out with Wout. Never was the right time.”

“See?” Mathieu said, because he would take the vindication where he could get it. “Asshole.”

Tadej sighed. “Don’t drag your shit into this,” he said. “I will not let you ruin this for me.”

“Cockblocking asshole,” Mathieu said.

“So,” Wout said. It was the beginning of rehearsal, and people were still filing in. Despite the stage manager’s increasingly creative threats, no one managed to show up on time, which meant there was a good chunk of buffer time before rehearsal started in earnest, especially when they were doing a big scene like they were tonight.

Wout had apparently decided to use the time to approach Mathieu and start a conversation. Most of the time, they were both content to ignore each other until they were forced to acknowledge the other’s existence for one reason or another, but they were in unusual circumstances, and their usual modus operandi wouldn’t work here. Mathieu turned, squaring his shoulders and meeting Wout’s gaze head-on. Standing like this, it was obvious how close they were in height and build. Wout might look slightly taller, but that was because of his stupid hair, and Mathieu knew he had the better shoulders. “So,” Mathieu repeated back to him. He had the brief, futile glimmer of hope that maybe Wout was here to concede, to give up the part of Beatrice so that anyone, literally anyone, could play her instead.

But of course he wasn’t that lucky. Wout gave him a tight-lipped attempt at a smile and said, “Since the success of this play is dependent on us being able to work together, I think we should find some time to–”

His carefully crafted speech was interrupted by a hearty backslap from Primož, one of the long-time members of the company, finally back from an extended absence. “Wout! Doing well, eh? Heard they have you playing Beatrice. Congrats.” It wasn’t clear whether or not the company could be split into factions, but if it could, Primož was definitely in Wout’s.

Wout’s severe and stony expression did soften at the sight of Primož, though, like he was trying to demonstrate that he was capable of moving his facial muscles. “It’s good to have you back and without a cast.” He pulled Primož into a one-armed hug. Primož had broken his leg on the final night of Macbeth in a freak accident when part of the set fell on him during his big death scene as Banquo. Some people blamed it on the way Primož was careless about the Curse throughout the production, throwing around the name of the play and the main character in a way that was begging for something terrible to happen, but Mathieu was pretty sure it was just the shoddy construction. Wout continued, “Are you here to watch rehearsals?”

“Here to see if there are any roles left for me or if you are hogging them all,” Primož said. He was smiling, but there was an undercurrent of tension to it. The broken leg had meant that Primož missed out on the auditioning process for Much Ado, and it would be the first production of the society where he didn’t have a major speaking part in over five years.

Mathieu hadn’t wanted to talk to Wout, but he also didn’t like that Primož had barged into the conversation. For one thing, it was prolonging the time he had to spend in Wout’s presence, drawing out the awkwardness, and for another, Wout had demanded Mathieu’s time and attention, and it didn’t seem fair that he wasn’t giving his full time and attention in return. Mathieu was considering making his excuses and exiting this conversation, but then Tadej showed up with a giant shit-eating grin on his face.

“Hello!” he said with an unreasonable amount of cheer for someone who was supposed to be morose and downtrodden in this scene. He said a few rapid-fire words in Slovenian to Primož which made Primož laugh.

That must have been some sort of signal, because Primož said to Wout, “We will catch up later, okay?” and then he went off to greet Tom, one of his long-time buddies, who was playing Don Pedro.

Tadej turned towards Wout. “Ah, Wout,” he said, “just the man I was looking for.”

Wout had gone tense again, his expression closed off and suspicious. “You were?”

Mathieu knew from the particular gleam in Tadej’s eye that they were all going to regret what he said next. Sure enough, he launched into a spiel. “I know Mathieu was going to ask you himself, but we wanted to know if you could join us for coffee before rehearsal on Wednesday.”

The look that Wout shot Mathieu seemed to indicate that he knew that this was bullshit. Mathieu expected him to beg off by claiming he needed to do a boring work thing or wash his hair, but instead, Wout just set his shoulders and said, “Sure, I can do that.”

“Great!” Tadej said, beaming. “I cannot make it this week, so you will have to be the one to keep Mathieu company. I do not want him to drink alone.” He gave Mathieu an over-enthusiastic pat on the back, as if coffee and vodka were anywhere near the same thing, and then he wandered off, leaving Mathieu to face the aftermath.

Mathieu could have strangled him for that. Pre-rehearsal coffee was sacred, and now he was going to have to spend it alone with Wout just because Tadej was so delighted he was making progress with his crush that he needed to inflict misery on everyone else.

Wout turned back to Mathieu and with a surprising amount of sensitivity, he said, hesitant, “I won’t show up if you don’t want me to.”

This was the kind of gesture that made Wout impossible to actually hate. Mathieu let out a heavy sigh. “No, we’re supposed to be working on our chemistry, right? It isn’t the worst idea.”

Wout gave him a nod for that and a tentative smile, and it was all the more reason to be annoyed at Tadej — he was right; Wout did have a pretty smile. Wout said, “Okay, so Wednesday, then? I know you like to go to that cafe across the street.”

Before Mathieu could respond, there was an outburst from the other side of the room.

“There’s obviously been some kind of mistake,” Remco, their Dogberry, was saying to the director in Dutch. “I think we all know how unsuited to playing Don John he is.”

At the sound of his character’s name, Sepp perked his head up. He was the token native anglophone of the cast, an American, and while his Dutch was improving, it was not good enough to keep up when someone was speaking quickly. Which Remco was.

“I’m sorry, but as I’ve told you before, the current cast is final.” The director spoke with a cool politeness, this time in English, so that the whole cast could understand what he was saying.

Remco scowled, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He thought he was hot shit just because he had once been Cesario in a production of Twelfth Night for the Brussels Shakespeare Society, the bigger, more prestigious cousin of the Antwerp chapter, and it meant he got moody and demanding when he didn’t get his way.

“If you don’t want your part,” Primož said helpfully from behind Remco’s shoulder, “I will take your place.”

Remco glared at him, a dark, poisonous look. “Don’t even think about it,” he snarled.

“If we figure this out, maybe we don’t have to end up like that,” Mathieu muttered under his breath before realizing that he was with Wout, not Tadej or Jasper or someone else who didn’t instinctively hate Mathieu’s guts.

But to his surprise, Wout just gave him a wry smile and a dry, “Agreed,” like maybe he actually had something resembling a sense of humor after all.

Tadej

Tadej was doing his best not to bounce on his toes. A friend at university had once told him that it made him look like a ten year old who didn’t know how to sit still, but right now he was full of jangling nerves, which made it more difficult to pretend to be an adult.

Night had already fallen, a consequence of the shorter autumn days, but the street in front of the youth center was still lively. Tadej loved living in a city, surrounded by the vibrancy and energy and density of human everything, even when Belgium sometimes felt far away from home. In the crush of people and under the yellow glow of the streetlights, he managed to pick out Jonas’ familiar red helmet weaving through the other bikes. His heart jumped in his chest. That same university friend had some choice words about how Tadej fell in love too easily, and while Tadej tried to stay on good terms with everyone, well, there was a reason why Tadej didn’t talk to that friend after they graduated.

The moment when Jonas stepped off his bike and noticed Tadej standing there, waiting, Tadej gave him a big, enthusiastic wave. Jonas smiled at that, a small, private smile that had Tadej’s already-racing heart doing back flips. He did his best to stay patient while Jonas finished locking up his bike.

They didn’t have rehearsals on Thursdays, but the youth center room was reserved in month-long blocks and served as a secondary storage space when otherwise not in use. Tadej had sweet-talked the stage manager into getting access during their off-nights, which had involved a lot of begging, pleading, and bribery (in the form of doughnuts from the bakery he worked at during the day). Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic of locations, but it was a familiar, comfortable place for the both of them, and the last thing Tadej wanted to do was make Jonas uncomfortable.

“Hi,” Tadej said as Jonas came closer. He had picked up two cups of coffee to go from their usual pre-rehearsal cafe, and now he held out one of them. “I didn’t know if you wanted– well, I always need a caffeine fix before I do my best acting.”

Jonas’s small smile got bigger. He accepted the offered cup from Tadej’s hand and took a tentative sip. “Thank you,” he said, and he didn’t even make any snide remarks about how Tadej shouldn’t even need the chemical assistance, given his personality.

Tadej beamed back at him. He was totally getting top marks for this sort-of-date, maybe-date, proto-date. He just had to keep this up for the next few hours and the next few weeks, and then maybe by the end of it, Jonas would be willing to date Tadej for real.

The rehearsal room, when they entered it and Jonas flicked on the lights, felt much bigger with just the two of them, but it was hardly cavernous. The tables were still pushed to one side, and there were boxes of props stacked in one corner. The chairs were still laid out in the way they were during their usual rehearsals, with one side of the room designated as the stage. Brightly colored tape was affixed to the floor for blocking and set design purposes. It felt almost cozy.

For Tadej, stepping into this room always felt like stepping onto a stage, a place where he didn’t need to hold back, where he could be as much himself as possible by not being himself at all. On stage, Tadej never had to worry about taking up too much space or grabbing too much attention, being too loud or feeling too much. He didn’t know if it was like that for Jonas, who liked to keep to the edges of rooms, out of sight, like he was terrified of being perceived. He had a shakiness as an actor, a sort of inexperienced uncertainty, that Tadej couldn’t help but find endearing. Even then, he had a natural sweetness, a way of drawing the eye even when he wasn’t the brightest or the shiniest thing. He just needed to find some comfort in this part and some confidence in himself, and he would be the perfect Hero.

Good thing Tadej was here to help him out.

“So,” Tadej said as soon as they settled in, pulling out two of the chairs and their scripts, resting their coffee cups on the floor at their feet. “Act two, scene one?” Hero and Claudio didn’t have any one-on-one scenes together. Most of their romance happened through intermediaries. They didn’t have any of those extended swooning declarations of love with just the two of them like Romeo and Juliet, which was a pity. All their shared dialogue was in large group scenes with a lot of other characters coming in and out. But this extra time was for Jonas’ benefit, not Tadej’s, and Tadej was happy to put on silly voices to play Don Pedro or Margaret or Beatrice if it made Jonas feel more comfortable delivering his lines. Maybe Tadej could even coax another laugh out of him if he was good enough at it.

“Sure,” Jonas said. He started flipping through his script, which gave Tadej the opportunity to stare at his hands. “From where everyone enters while masked?”

“Yup!” Tadej said. “I’ll be Don Pedro.” He sat up straighter and pitched his voice lower in an attempt to imitate Tom. “Lady, will you walk about with your friend?”

Jonas started, “So you walk– you walk sweetly, and you–” He paused, grimacing, after he tripped over his line. “Sorry, I’ll– let’s start again.” He bowed his head, eyes fixed on the script in his hands.

Tadej smiled at him in a way that hopefully came across as encouraging and not mocking. “We don’t have to rush into things. We can start with those vocal warmups they make us do at the beginning of rehearsal.” He launched into the first English tongue twister he could think of. “She sells seashells by the seashore.” He rushed his way through it, mangling half the words, but it didn’t seem to matter.

That earned Tadej a soft laugh from Jonas, and a spark returned to his eyes after his embarrassment earlier. “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” He said it slowly, enunciating each word, the way they’re supposed to.

Tadej said, “English is a silly language.”

“Very silly,” Jonas agreed.

They went through a round of vocal warmups from memory, laughing through them in a way they never let themselves during rehearsal. Even though the warmups felt ridiculous, Tadej still appreciated the chance to let his mouth settle back into the rhythms of reciting lines in English. Yes, he spent his whole day speaking in English, with a smattering of the Dutch he was learning mixed in, but it was different when it came to acting. It was even more different when it came to Shakespeare.

“Okay?” Tadej asked. “Ready to start again?” They were standing up now, chairs pushed back into their original positions, finished coffee cups tossed into the trash. The one acting class Tadej had taken had insisted it was important to stand up when working on lines, and Tadej could admit that he always felt acting in his whole body and not just his voice.

“Yes,” Jonas said. He sounded more relaxed now. Some of the tension had left his shoulders.

Tadej cleared his throat and put on his best Tom impression again. “Lady, will you walk about with your friend?” He held out one hand for Hero to take.

Jonas said, “So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing. I am yours for the walk–” He reached for Tadej’s hand, a brief moment where Tadej was certain that they would touch for the first time tonight, but then Jonas yanked it back with a bit of Hero’s knowing, flirtatious twinkle in his eyes. “–and especially as I walk away.”

Tadej felt hooked, caught like a fish on the end of a line, and it was his own words as much as Don Pedro’s when he said, “With me in your company?”

Jonas said, “I may say so, when I please.” He took a step away, putting himself just out reach.

“And when please you to say so?” Tadej took two steps closer, close enough to smell Jonas now, something subtle and difficult to describe, not so different from Jonas himself.

This time Jonas did take Tadej’s hand, and a nice little buzz shot through all of Tadej’s nerve endings. “When I like your favor; for God defend the lute should be like the case!”

Tadej made a gesture to his face as if he were wearing a mask right now. They were supposed to be at a masquerade ball after all. He let himself imagine it: the tinkle of wine glasses, the bright peels of laughter hanging in the air, the crush of beautiful costumes and masks all around them. This was what was beautiful about the theater, the ability to craft a world on stage and invite an audience to come along. “My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house is Jove.” It was a reference to an old Greek myth, and Tadej was curious what the mask would look like when it was completed. The director had some ideas for the production that were still being hotly debated with the set and costume designers, and it seemed like he might win them over to his idea of a space theme. Tadej was charmed by the idea, but he knew better than to get involved. He was just happy to wear what they gave him and stand where they told him to.

“Why, then, your visor should be thatched,” Jonas said. He had pitched his voice to be sweet and lilting, and his gaze was coquettish beneath his lashes. The whole effect was devastating. Tadej didn’t stand a chance. The audience wouldn’t either.

He risked a quick kiss to the back of Jonas’ hand, and Jonas didn’t pull away or look uncomfortable with it, so Tadej let himself savor the moment. “Speak low if you speak love.”

At this point in the scene, both Don Pedro and Hero step aside so that other characters at the ball could have their own conversations. Jonas took that as a cue to pull his hand back, much to Tadej’s dismay, and clear his throat. The ease that had carried them through the scene had now faded, leaving a new awkwardness in its wake.

Tadej was determined not to let it linger. “That was great!” he said. “Want to do it again and see if we can get it smoother this time?”

Jonas took a deep breath and nodded. He also looked a little surprised by how smoothly that line reading had gone. He had been on a little wooden when he had run through it with Tom, focusing too hard on saying each line correctly and not enough on how to engage with the other actors in the scene. “Yes, okay,” he said, and the pleased smile he gave to Tadej made Tadej’s mouth go dry.

He was going to be giving up all his free evenings for the next two months, and all his friends would hate him for making scheduling things with him impossible, but even then, Tadej was convinced this was the best idea he’d ever had.

Wout

Wout had never been to this cafe before. For a while now, it had been firmly Mathieu’s domain. They had never made any sort of formal declaration about it, but the battle lines between them had been drawn all the same. This particular line was never one Wout had ever felt any desire to cross, anyway. The coffee at his office was mediocre, but it was also free, and if he had too much caffeine after dinner, it would mess with his sleep schedule for days.

Still, it was a nice enough cafe as far as cafes went. The walls were painted a rich, deep orange, and they were decorated with art from local artists. The chairs were not the most comfortable things Wout had ever sat on, but they weren’t forbidding or hostile either. Even this late in the day, the space was still filled with background chatter. That helped to cover up the awkward silence at their own table.

Wout resisted the urge to check his watch again. They only had one hour before the start of rehearsal. He was torn between wanting to make the most use out of this time and wanting it to just be over already so that they could both get on with their lives.

“Is that really all you’re getting?” Mathieu asked eventually, casting a dubious look at the lone cookie sitting on a plate in front of Wout. As far as Wout could tell, the cafe didn’t have any cookie-sized plates, so the cookie looked even smaller and more pathetic in comparison. Mathieu was halfway through his first espresso and looked as though he was already gearing up for his second.

Wout bristled at the implied criticism, but he fought down his initial reaction. Getting defensive would not help here. “Yes,” he said. He picked up the cookie and took a bite out of it. At least it was tasty. He had hoped that they would be able to get through a whole hour of coffee together unscathed, but it wasn’t looking likely.

They didn’t like each other. That had always been a fundamental underpinning of their relationship. Wout could recognize that some of that was fueled by jealousy, at least on his part. Mathieu was a shining star, and he had a way of making his performances seem effortless, easy, like it didn’t cost him anything at all. For Wout, any part was all about putting in the work, repeating the lines and movements over and over and over again until he almost hated them, showing up and focusing for hours at all times. And even after he did all of that, Mathieu somehow always managed to make Wout feel like his duller, plainer shadow, struggling to keep up.

Mathieu was so good that Wout couldn’t help but feel resentful that it seemed like a lark for him, something to pass the time, when Wout needed acting. He needed to shed his skin, needed to become someone else, at least for a little while. As Beatrice, Wout could be someone loud and funny and popular. He could feel a whole wide range of messy human emotions in a place that felt safe. He could be someone who loved and was loved in return.

The reasons for why Mathieu didn’t like Wout were less clear.

Mathieu sipped his espresso and watched Wout eat his cookie with a cool and uninterested expression. He wasn’t going to be any help right now.

Wout sighed and said, “Look, let’s put all our cards on the table. I want to play Beatrice. You want to play Benedick. We don’t have to be friends, but we do have to be able to pretend to like each other.”

Mathieu made a skeptical noise. “And how do you propose we do that, exactly?” he asked.

“We could do those trust falls again,” Wout said, deadpan. Before the first read, it was customary for the cast and crew to do an awful set of bonding exercises. This time, it had been trust falls, and everyone had hated them. Wout had shared several skeptical eye-rolls with Jonas. Tadej had tried to make it interesting by pretending to trip as he did an extended pratfall into Tom’s arms. Remco had refused to participate entirely.

Mathieu’s initial reaction to Wout’s suggestion was pure incredulity. His eyebrows drew together, and the corner of his mouth dipped in undisguised disgust.

Wout did his best to keep a straight face for as long as possible, but eventually, he cracked a smile, unable to hold it back any longer.

Mathieu snorted as soon as he realized Wout had been joking, and it transformed his face from something as cool and austere as a statue into something genuine and almost human. Wout couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

When the giggle subsided, Wout felt comfortable enough to ask, “Why don’t you like me?” He’d never questioned it before, but now he really wanted an answer.

Mathieu blinked. He clearly hadn’t been expecting Wout to just come out and ask. “You’re an asshole,” he said.

It was blunt and unhelpful, but said with such unvarnished feeling that Wout found himself laughing again. That set Mathieu off again too. Wout had assumed that the best they could do was “collegial” but it seemed like they could maybe even make it all the way to “friendly.”

“I guess you’re not as uptight as I thought,” Mathieu admitted.

Wout tensed. A self-fulfilling prophecy. He knew he could be prickly and standoffish at times, unable to fully relax. He always felt like he was on the verge of fucking up, of saying or doing the wrong thing by accident. His therapist said that was normal after coming off a bad relationship, that the constant stream of criticism, both valid and not, was a means of exercising control. Still, shedding those instincts was easier said than done. Wout found it easier when he was acting, when he knew exactly what was expected of him. Stand right here. Say this line. The notes and corrections were easy enough to implement and were honestly given. The arc of the story was predetermined, and if he just followed the script, he knew how it would end.

It was easier around some people. Jonas had a straightforward, calming energy, and he had been there throughout the entire Nick saga, scraped Wout off the floor more than once and stuck by him in the aftermath of it. Mathieu, on the other hand, had this lazy arrogance to him, like he expected the world to fall at his feet, and more often than not, the world obliged. Mathieu didn’t look like Nick any more than most Benelux-born white men did, and he probably wasn’t always on the verge of telling Wout he was only attractive when he wasn’t expressing an opinion, but something about Mathieu made Wout uncomfortable all the same.

Mathieu’s expression was thoughtful. “Why don’t you like me?” he asked. There wasn’t anything standoffish or defensive to the way he phrased the question, just genuine curiosity.

Wout forced himself to relax. He and Mathieu weren’t dating. It would be difficult for him to make their relationship any worse than it already was. He could be honest, and it would help clear the air. “I wanted to play Prince Hal, that first season,” he said, “and you were better than me.” It was easier to put it in words than Wout thought it would be.

Mathieu nodded. He didn’t seem to be judging Wout for his petty, human weaknesses. His expression remained thoughtful. “I was convinced that Macbeth was going to be mine, but then I heard your ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow,’ and I knew there was just no fucking way they would give it to me.”

Well, if they were going to be going down this road, Wout had something else to confess. “I cried every time you delivered the ‘How all occasions do inform against me’ soliloquy in Hamlet.”

Mathieu blinked, surprised. “I didn’t know that,” he said.

Wout shrugged. “I didn’t want you to know.” Stubbornness and pride had held him back at the time, a desire not to show any sort of weakness. Mathieu had been his rival, his main competition, but now that attitude felt childish and ridiculous. They were here to work toward the same goals, regardless of how Wout’s ego felt about it.

“I think I made some assumptions about you,” Mathieu admitted, “but you’re actually kind of okay.” His lips were twisted into a wry smile. Wout found his grudging acceptance oddly soothing. Nick had either been overly solicitous when he wanted something or overly critical when he didn’t. There hadn’t been anything in between.

“If all it took was lavishing you with compliments to get you to like me, maybe I would have done it sooner,” Wout said dryly. It was the kind of joke that would have gotten a defensive reaction from Nick, maybe even a retort about how Wout always had to have a snide comment about everything.

Mathieu just laughed, though. “You should have started with that on the first day, told me how talented and handsome I was. We would be the best of friends by now.” He was already magnetic when he was serious and brooding on stage, capable of holding the audience in the palm of his hand, but here, smiling wide and easy, he was, well, he was better.

“I don’t like lying when I’m not in character,” Wout said, keeping his voice even and deadpan. This felt dangerous, so close to flirting, when that was not in any way a good idea, but it was too fun to stop.

Mathieu let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. “Well, I guess we’re destined to hate each other forever now,” he said, but he was still smiling, and they both knew that it was nowhere close to the truth.

Chapter 2: Act II

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Many thanks to Stulti for once again cleaning up my ’that’s and giving me theater info, jazzish for telling me about Belgian breakfast pastries, and and_nobody_noticed for validating me when I was feeling sick.

Jonas

Saturdays were work days. That meant the crew, and often the cast, had time allocated for all of the grunt work of building sets, constructing props, assembling costumes. The director had won his battle for a science fiction theme, specifically Star Trek, and there was plenty of work to do. Today’s focus was on the sets: big gray walls and doors that could slide open and closed.

Jonas had loved work days when he was primarily a crew member. They had access to the theater space for one thing, no longer squished into the small youth center room, no longer forced to work around the actors and their blocking. For another, work days brought the cast and crew together, which meant that Jonas could spend time with not only Wout, but some of his other friends in the cast, like Sepp and Nathan, who was playing Leonato.

Wout was busy today with family commitments, but Tadej had mentioned during their last line reading together that he was planning on showing up. Jonas had been thrilled to hear it. He told himself that it was just because Tadej would liven up the proceedings, but it felt dishonest to frame it that way. He liked spending time with Tadej. He wanted to do more of it.

Their line readings together were productive. They had made their way through all of Hero’s lines, and Jonas felt much more comfortable with the role. The words came easily now, natural and fluid. They were beginning to feel like a part of him.

When Jonas first joined the society, he had been content to be just a cog in the larger machine. He’d taken satisfaction in it, in being one of the many invisible hands behind the scenes. But he was starting to understand why Wout and Tadej loved being acting so much. (“It’s even better with an audience,” Tadej had promised, but that just sounded terrifying.)

“Reporting for duty!” Tadej announced as he bounced his way into the workroom. It was a separate room away from the main theater space, and the company had claimed it for their construction efforts. The floors were covered in protective plastic sheets, and someone had set up a Bluetooth speaker, which was blasting some sort of Europop. Tadej dropped a box of doughnuts onto the lone food table, where the stage manager had already spread out an array of koffiekoeken, Belgian breakfast pastries.

Tadej caught sight of where Jonas and Nathan were painting walls and grinned. Jonas gave him a little wave. They’d already had a rough morning, and seeing Tadej’s smiling face was a relief. The director and stage manager had had a low, angry argument about how to convey that the masquerade ball was happening in a holodeck, and the costume designer nearly burst into tears when he was told that all of his current disguise ideas would need to be scrapped in favor of something that looked more futuristic. Jonas had only ever watched two episodes of Star Trek in his life and did not understand most of it.

Despite the stress of the morning, he found himself smiling as Tadej bounded up to them and gave him a big, tight hug. Jonas hugged him back. Jonas did not remember when they had become the kind of friends who hugged when greeting each other, but he liked it. It was probably Tadej’s fault. He had a way of taking chances and then asking for forgiveness later that was more endearing than annoying.

“Hi,” Jonas said.

Nathan gave a stiff nod. He wasn’t the most talkative of people at the best of times, and he seemed to find Tadej’s energy wearying instead of amusing.

“What are you up to?” Tadej asked, eyeing their workspace, in which one of the large walls was laid out on the ground, surrounded by brushes and paint cans.

“Painting,” Nathan said. He was watching the two of them with suspicion, and Jonas felt his neck get hot, even though all he had done was hug one of his fellow actors.

“Great!” Tadej chirped, as if he had been waiting his whole life to pick up a paintbrush.

They got to work. Nathan was the tallest of the three of them, so he was deputized to be the one to fetch new pieces of the set that needed to be painted the same spaceship gray while Jonas and Tadej set out to make their brush strokes as even and uniform as possible. They weren’t any good at it, but hopefully it wouldn’t be too obvious from a distance. All of their work left behind tangible traces: a row of drying walls, the heavy smell of paint that even the open windows couldn’t dissipate, gray splotches on Tadej’s hands and shirt and cheeks.

This was one of the other reasons why Jonas had loved being on the crew. He enjoyed the physicality of making something with his hands. He liked being a part of something larger than just himself. He loved seeing the final results, the culmination of all that time and energy honed into a performance. It was a far cry from being stuck in meetings, listening to everyone else drone on and on about KPIs and business strategy.

“He likes you, you know,” Nathan said. They were on a lunch break in the main theater space, far away from the paint fumes, sitting in the audience with their sandwiches in their laps.

“Oh,” Jonas responded. Instinctively, he turned his head to look up towards the lighting booth, where Tadej had convinced the light tech to let him play with the light board. Right now, the stage was lit up half in pink and half in green. A strobe flicked on for just a moment before shutting off. From this angle, Jonas could only catch a glimpse of the spiked tufts of Tadej’s hair, but he could imagine the childlike glee on Tadej’s face. Jonas didn’t date much, mostly because he was quiet and introverted and preferred staying at home with his cat to “putting himself out there.” He’d had serious boyfriends before, but they were more like him, quiet and reserved. Tadej might as well have been from a different planet from them.

Tadej chose that moment to pop out of the booth. He noticed Jonas looking up in his direction and gave him a big, exaggerated wave. Jonas waved back.

“Are you going to do something about it?” Nathan asked. His voice was neutral, though sometimes it was difficult to both pick up and convey nuance in English when neither of them were native speakers. From what Jonas could tell, Nathan didn’t love Tadej, but he didn’t hate him either.

Jonas thought about the warmth in his chest that flickered to life whenever Tadej was around. “Yes,” he said.

“He is in earnest,” Jonas said.

“In most profound earnest; and I’ll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.” Tadej’s hands were on his hips, chest puffed up. Now that they’ve completed a complete run-through of all of Hero’s scenes — many of them multiple times, depending on how much trouble Jonas had with them — Jonas had insisted that they work on some of Claudio’s scenes as well. This was partly out of fairness and partly because he liked watching Tadej’s acting.

“And hath challenged you,” Jonas added. He was not going to attempt an imitation of Tom, but he did attempt to feel like he was acting, to give something for Tadej to play off of. The words didn’t have the same feel as Hero’s did, awkward and ungainly in Jonas’ mouth without the hours and hours of practice with them. Tadej hadn’t complained yet so far.

“Most sincerely,” Tadej announced, forehead furrowed, conveying all of Claudio’s confusion.

Jonas tried to infuse the next line with more of Don Pedro’s skepticism for Benedick’s behavior, tried to imagine he was watching Benedick’s retreating back. “What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!”

“He is then a giant–” Tadej stood up on his tiptoes, trying to gain as much height as he could (which wasn’t much), “–to an ape–” he brought down his arms, shot his elbows out and curled his fists in, an imitation of a gorilla, “– but then an ape is a doctor to such a man.”

In the wrong hands, Claudio could be a dull part. He didn’t have Benedick’s carefree wit or Don Pedro’s proud authority. His jealousy was cruel, without any of the nuance of a character like Iago. Tadej approached the part with the same reckless abandon with which he did everything else, and it made Claudio as interesting as anyone else on stage, a fun counterpoint to Mathieu’s cool, sharp Benedick and Tom’s steadfast Don Pedro. Tadej was always so brazen and unafraid. Around him, Jonas always felt less afraid, too.

Don Pedro had another line, but Jonas didn’t say it. He dropped his script and whatever bits of character he’d had onto the ground, cupped Tadej’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

“Mmpft,” Tadej said against Jonas’ lips.

Jonas kissed him harder. Once Tadej stopped flailing, he kissed back, eager and as enthusiastic, the way Jonas had hoped he would. Maybe Jonas should have been wary. They still didn’t know each other that well, and that could be asking for trouble. But Jonas didn’t want to shy away from this. He just liked Tadej so much, liked the rich blue of his eyes, liked the sweetness of his laugh, liked the way he could find joy in everything. When he was at his best, Tadej didn’t hold anything back, and Jonas didn’t want to hold anything back either.

When Jonas pulled away from the kiss, Tadej looked dazed. His eyes were unfocused. His lips were red. Jonas thought about kissing him again.

“Um, uh,” Tadej said. The words seemed caught in his throat. “What– uh, yes, um, it wasn’t the ape impression, right?”

“I wanted to kiss you, so I kissed you,” Jonas explained.

Tadej blinked at him. “I had a whole plan,” he said, still dazed. “I was going to invite you out to drinks after dress rehearsal. I was going to give you flowers on opening night. I was going to ask you out on a real date after the wrap party.” He didn’t sound entirely upset to have his plan interrupted, but there was still a plaintive, even disappointed, note to his voice.

“Well,” Jonas said, “my plan was to kiss you again.” Tadej didn’t seem like he was in any mood to object.

Sure enough, Tadej said, “I like your plan. Let’s do that.”

And then they did.

Wout

Another night of rehearsals. At this point in the production, everything was in full swing. Maybe the swing was a bit wobbly, but it was still swinging nonetheless. Much of the early experimentation, both on the part of the director and the actors, had now settled into their final decisions. More and more of their scenes were off book. The blocking felt less haphazard and more purposeful. All in all, their efforts were beginning to resemble an actual play.

Wout liked these rehearsals best — when the work that needed to be done became discrete action items instead of a large, amorphous never-ending list, and all they needed to do was execute.

“Then down on her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’” Tadej had decided to turn things up to eleven by miming every action described in Claudio’s line, including dropping to his knees and clutching at his hair. It was funny and exaggerated, and it was supposed to be, a performance within the play for a hidden Benedick who was eavesdropping as they talked about Beatrice’s (fabricated) love for him.

As part of the blocking, Mathieu crouched down behind a chair that was standing in for a Star Trek-style computer console. The set designer was still working on the build, so they didn’t quite know what it looked like yet, but it was only a matter of time before that turned into something real, too.

Nathan sighed. His version of Leonato was very put-upon, and Wout couldn’t even blame him, given how much shit he had to deal with over the course of the play. “She doth indeed,” he said, “my daughter says so ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeared she will do a desperate outrage to herself: it is very true.”

Tom interjected next as Don Pedro, smiling as he added, “It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.”

Tadej shook his head, now looking downtrodden. “To what end? He would but make a sport of it and torment the lady worse.”

Wout only had a few lines at the end of the scene, so he was sitting in the audience with Primož. Primož still hadn’t been able to finagle himself a speaking part, though it didn’t seem to be from lack of trying. His role right now was to be a free-floating understudy and occasional stand-in during rehearsals. The stage manager had also put him to work as another stage hand, since they always could use more help with that. Even though his position was a little strange these days, Wout would always feel grateful towards Primož. Primož had played King Henry IV during Wout’s first season, and he’d been a steadying, encouraging influence, ready and willing to show him the ropes.

“You and Mathieu are doing better, yeah?” Primož asked, whispering. “No chance of either of you getting recast?” Wout had no idea how he’d even heard about that, but Primož always seemed to know all the gossip.

Wout said, “We’re doing okay.” They’d had more pre-rehearsal coffees together, both with and without Tadej as a buffer. They’d even exchanged numbers and texted a bit. Mathieu seemed to enjoy it when Wout needed to bitch about his coworkers, and Wout appreciated having a sympathetic ear when he needed to vent.

Primož smiled. “Well, let me know if he needs to be replaced. Benedick is a great part. One of the best.”

Wout smiled back. “I will.” A month ago, Wout would have said Primož replacing Mathieu would have been the ideal scenario. Primož was a gifted actor, fun and charming, and Wout had always loved playing off his energy. But now it was impossible to imagine anyone besides Mathieu as Wout’s Benedick.

On their makeshift stage, Mathieu started Benedick’s monologue after Claudio, Don Pedro, and Leonato made their exits. That meant Wout needed to prepare to make his entrance. He got up and walked over to the marked off “wings,” and he dialed back his focus onto the scene in front of him.

“They say the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness.” Mathieu gazed out at the audience, a thoughtful expression on his face. “And virtuous; ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly.” He paused there, and a warm, sweet smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. The tenderness of the expression softened the sharper angles of his face. He let out a small, wistful sigh. Wout had seen him give this speech a dozen times before, but it had never been like this. Mathieu liked to pitch it more comedic and goofy, playing up the absurdity of being tricked into falling in love with his rival/bickering partner by his friends. He’d never delivered it with so much genuine feeling before. Mathieu announced, “For I will be horribly in love with her.” His eyes flicked to the side, towards Wout, an amateur mistake. Their gazes met for a brief moment. Wout realized, with a sickening lurch at the pit of his stomach, that this is what Mathieu looked like when he was in love.

Even worse, Wout realized he liked it.

His heart rate spiked, a flood of adrenaline pouring through his system, all his instincts telling him to run or fight. He hadn’t dated anyone since Nick, had told himself it was just because he hadn’t met the right person, but it was harder to deny the truth when it was staring him right in the face. He was terrified. He couldn’t handle being adored any more than he could handle the concept of adoring anyone else, no matter that all of it was fictional.

He was so out of sorts from his multiple realizations that he almost missed his cue. But Wout kept it together enough to enter and hit his mark. “Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,” he managed to force out. He hoped his distraction came across as bored detachment.

Mathieu turned his full attention towards him, and their eyes locked again. When they’d first started this production, they struggled to maintain any sort of eye contact. Now, Wout was having trouble looking away. “Fair Beatrice,” Mathieu said, “I thank you for your pains.”

Wout turned towards the audience, which consisted of their director and their bored castmates. It seemed safer that way. “I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.” Acting was all about lying, but Wout was having difficulty sustaining Beatrice’s disinterest while he was freaking out.

Mathieu said, “You take pleasure then in the message?” Wout couldn’t help but glance at him again, and Mathieu’s lovesick gaze (acting, he was acting) made it difficult to breathe.

Wout grimaced, knowing that it would at least be passable for disgust. “Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well,” he said, and with that, he exited both the scene and the room.

Jonas was the one who found him in the hallway later. There weren’t any chairs out here, so Wout was sitting on the floor, back pressed up against the wall. One of the tiles on the floor had a chip in it. Wout knew this because he’d been staring blankly at it for the last five minutes.

“Do they need me back inside?” Wout asked as Jonas approached. The director had summoned them all here today to go over both Act II, Scene 3 and Act III, Scene 1, so that he could ensure that there were parallels, but not too many, between Benedick being tricked being tricked by Claudio and Don Pedro and Beatrice being tricked by Hero and her waiting gentlewomen. Once they were done with Tadej, Mathieu, and Tom’s scene, Wout, along with Jonas and Mattias (their Margaret) and Wilco (their Ursula) would be called up next.

Jonas shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. He sat down next to Wout, pressed up against Wout’s side, and tilted his head to rest on Wout’s shoulder. Wout leaned into it, taking comfort in the familiar weight and heat of Jonas’ body.

“Is this about Nick?” Jonas asked, his voice soft. “Or about Mathieu?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? “Both,” Wout said, “and maybe neither. I just — I don’t know if — I thought I was over it, that I was ready, but I guess I’m not.” He didn’t have to explain any of the gory details to Jonas, which was a relief. Jonas was there for most of it, after all.

“You don’t have to be ready. You don’t have a deadline to hit.” Jonas gave Wout’s wrist a small, comforting squeeze.

Wout swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I think I— I think I want to be. Ready.” Even when things were at their worst with Nick, there had been a sweetness to being in love, a tender ache. It wasn’t enough to compensate for the rest of it, but sometimes it came close. Wout hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

“I think you can get there,” Jonas said, with his usual quiet steadiness.

Wout smiled, doing his best to believe it. “Like you and Tadej?” he asked, teasing. He’d noticed a change in their relationship over the last few weeks. Tadej was mostly the same. His crush had always been very loud and very obvious. It was the subtle shift in Jonas’ behavior that had tipped Wout off. The way his eyes always seemed to follow Tadej when they were in the same room together. The small, smug smiles. The casual touches between them, which wouldn’t be unusual for most members of the cast, but which were unusual for Jonas.

Jonas was quiet for a long moment, and when Wout turned to look at him, he saw the faintest signs of a blush on Jonas’ cheeks. “Yeah,” Jonas said eventually, and his voice was steady and unapologetic. “Like us.”

Wout was happy for him. Jonas deserved to have nice things. But even that happiness couldn’t clear away the heaviness in Wout’s chest. “Sometimes, I think— I worry that— that I might be broken somehow.” It sounded stupid and melodramatic as it came out of his mouth, but he did amateur theater in his spare time, so he figured he was allowed to indulge in some melodrama. He just wanted to feel normal again, the way he had before the Nick fiasco, when the thought of dating had been fun and exciting and not something that caused him to freak out in the middle of a rehearsal. He wondered if he should be crying right now, but he just felt hollowed out, empty.

“You’re not,” Jonas promised. He brought their foreheads together, one hand wrapped around the back of Wout’s neck. “You will get through this, all right?” He pressed a gentle kiss to Wout’s forehead before pulling away.

Wout let his eyes fall closed, took a deep breath, and did his best to believe him. All of this would probably pass eventually, just a version of temporary insanity or character bleed, Wout’s feelings getting mixed up into Beatrice’s. Mathieu was a safe enough target while Wout got over it. Everyone knew he had an aversion to commitment, and he’d never be interested in Wout that way, character bleed or no character bleed.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, pointed clearing of a throat. Wout opened his eyes. Mattias was standing just outside the rehearsal room door, watching the two of them with an odd expression on his face. “They’re starting to set up for the next scene,” he explained.

Wout nodded. “We’ll be right there,” he told him. He stood up, doing his best to shake off the stiffness of sitting on the floor for a while. He wasn’t exactly ready to go back in there and pretend to be Beatrice again, but he was doing okay and getting better by the second. He offered Jonas a hand up, and Jonas took it.

“You really will get through this,” Jonas murmured, low enough that Mattias couldn’t overhear them.

“Thanks,” Wout said softly, matching Jonas’ volume, before raising his voice. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Tadej

“Wait— I— I think we should—” Tadej mumbled against Jonas’ mouth. “— we should—” He flailed out one hand, trying to grab hold of his script. “— we’re here to—” He took one step back and did his best to disentangle himself, hoping that would let him regain his composure.

This seemed like a good idea right up until he got a look at Jonas’ freshly-kissed face, cheeks flushed pink, eyelids drooping, hair mussed. No jury would convict Tadej for kissing him again.

They had met this Friday evening for their usual line reading practice at the youth center. Tadej really had meant for them to work on their acting. Whatever else anyone said about him, Tadej did take the roles he had been given seriously. He wanted to be a good Claudio. He wanted Jonas to be the best Hero he could be.

Of course, all of his good intentions had gone straight out the window right after he’d recited the line, “Tomorrow, my lord: time goes on crutches till love have all his rites,” holding Jonas’ face in his hands as he, as Claudio, declared that he wanted to marry Hero tomorrow. Tadej wasn’t sure who kissed whom first after that. It didn’t really matter anyway.

What mattered was that Jonas’ tongue was in Tadej’s mouth and Jonas’ lips still tasted like the coffee that Tadej had brought him earlier.

Tadej knew, in the way that he knew things, that he was half in love with Jonas already, but he also knew, in the way that he knew things, that it was far too soon to say that out loud. They hadn’t had the time to talk about what this was. Tadej was discovering that conversations were difficult when his lips were attached to someone else’s lips. From past experience, he figured it should take at least six months of dating before he was allowed to spring the ‘L’ word on someone. He hoped he could count that first night Jonas kissed him as their first anniversary. Well, if they were dating. They hadn’t said they were dating yet, considering how difficult it was to say things while they were kissing. Tadej figured he could at least stick with his now-revised master plan. He could make a big, romantic gesture on opening night, and then ask Jonas to formally be his boyfriend at the wrap party.

Once Much Ado wrapped, the next production of the society wouldn’t kick off until January. There would be plenty more time to go on dates to restaurants and museums and the movies, and then Tadej could invite Jonas over to his apartment or maybe get invited over to Jonas’, and then maybe they could spend their nights together and have toothbrushes in each other’s bathrooms, right up until Tadej finally asked Jonas if they could move in together (maybe around 8 months? he could revise his master plan if necessary), and then Tadej could see Jonas all the time.

Jonas’ hands found their way into Tadej’s hair, and he tugged at it in a way that sent little sparks of electricity down Tadej’s spine. He tried one more time to be responsible. He pulled back just enough to ask, “Don’t you, uh, want to work on the, uh—”

Jonas licked his lips, which Tadej considered entirely unfair, and said, “I want to keep doing this. With you.”

“But aren’t you worried about the, uh, lines?” Tadej could hear how weak his voice was. Giving in to Jonas would be so much easier, but Tadej couldn’t bear it if Jonas ended up regretting their time together after they opened. Jonas’ confidence had improved to the point where he was able to carry on even when he stumbled over some of his lines, and his shoulders no longer seemed to be constantly tense. But even with the improvements, he still wasn’t as natural at it as some of the more experienced actors. It was noticeable in group scenes when he was watching other people talk, unsure of what to do with his hands or his body, and it was like he was always thinking ahead to his next line. Tadej could help him out with that, too. Maybe it would even be a good excuse to give Jonas a nice massage, and Tadej would happily take any opportunity to feel up Jonas’s back and shoulders.

The left corner of Jonas’ lips tilted up. It was such a cute smile. Tadej wanted to draw sparkly hearts around it. “Not really,” Jonas said, and he reeled Tadej in for another kiss.

Tadej bounced into Tuesday rehearsal freshly caffeinated and ready to tackle whatever the director threw at them. He was early, having skipped out on having pre-rehearsal coffee with Mathieu. Tonight was a Wout night, and Tadej knew better to stick his head into a Wout night. Well, he did now after he’d made that mistake two or three times already.

The rehearsal room was nearly empty this early. The director was sitting in a corner, frowning at his copy of the script. Sepp was chatting amiably with the costume and makeup designer about how Don John should be half-Romulan as an outward sign of his bastardry. Primož was in a conversation with Tom that involved a lot of shaking heads and gesticulating hands.

When Primož noticed Tadej, he waved him over to join his conversation, but he switched to Slovenian as soon as Tadej approached. “Ah, Tadej, would you like to hear the news?” Tadej glanced over at Tom, who didn’t seem put out about being excluded. Maybe Primož had already told him.

“Sure,” Tadej said. He enjoyed a spot of gossip from time to time, but he didn’t bother seeking it out. Half of it was just wild speculation with no basis in truth, but wild speculation could be fun in its own way.

“Wout and Jonas are dating,” Primož said. He had the faintest hint of a smile on his face, like he was pleased to know a secret.

Tadej laughed at first. It was ridiculous to even consider. Jonas was dating him, wasn’t he? Sure, Jonas and Wout spent a lot of time together and had been close long before they’d joined the company, but that didn’t mean they were dating. “That’s impossible,” Tadej insisted.

Primož gave him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the back. “It’s true. Mattias saw them, shall we say, canoodling in the hallway during rehearsals last week.” Tadej had vague memories of that. Wout going out into the hallway. Jonas following him. Mattias bringing them both back in. He’d noticed Jonas’s hair seemed a little more ruffled than when he’d left, but that could have been because of anything.

“But—” Tadej protested, but it was half-hearted. Maybe if this rumor had been about something that had happened months ago, that would have been fine, nothing to worry about. Wout and Jonas were both private people, and they could have dated and broken up away from the prying eyes of the rest of the company, since the company was full of gossiping busybodies. But Tadej had just seen Jonas yesterday, had ended up on one of the crappy rehearsal room chairs with Jonas in his lap, half worried they would tip over and still convinced it would be worth it anyway. Now the memory felt tainted, sleazy.

“I am sorry to be the one to tell you,” Primož said, “but I thought you should be one of the first to know. Better to hear about it now so you don’t get your heart broken later, right?”

“Right,” Tadej replied faintly. “No broken hearts.” It made a sick kind of sense. Jonas was easy and relaxed around Wout in a way he wasn’t around anyone else. They left rehearsals together. Jonas only ever touched Tadej, was only ever affectionate with him, when they were alone together in the rehearsal room. He had never broached the topic of seeing each other in public. He never wanted to stop and talk about anything.

Tadej’s stomach turned over like he’d eaten some bad fish yesterday. He wondered, with the part of his brain that was still working, if Wout knew what he and Jonas had been up to, all those nights they’d spent together working on their lines. It had been innocent enough most of the time, but well, there was no defense for all the kissing over the past few weeks. Jonas didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would cheat, but up until he’d discovered otherwise, Tadej would have said he didn’t seem like the kind of guy with nymphomaniac tendencies, either.

“Thanks for telling me,” Tadej forced out. He couldn’t deal with being around other people right now, so he went to go find an empty corner, feeling bad for abandoning the conversation so abruptly. It wasn’t Primož’s fault. He was just the bearer of bad news.

Just a few minutes ago, he’d been disappointed that this rehearsal was only going to involve Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, and Benedick without Hero (or Beatrice, thank god) present. He was always happy just to spend time around Jonas, even when they weren’t kissing. Apparently, Jonas did not feel the same way.

Tadej hoped Mathieu would get here soon. Mathieu would understand. At least, maybe he would. Tadej had thought it was possible that he and Wout had a thing, but Mathieu had been unusually tight-lipped about it, only willing to go as far as to say that Wout was now “tolerable.” He’d never had any issues kissing-and-telling before, so maybe Wout was just a much better boyfriend than Jonas and hadn’t decided to start making out with his co-stars without disclosing his other relationships.

Tadej’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text message from Jonas asking if they were still meeting tomorrow. The nausea in Tadej’s belly got worse. The thought of spending time alone with Jonas now made him want to dig himself a hole and then never climb out of it again. can’t, he texted back, and then he put his phone on do-not-disturb mode for the rest of rehearsal, and, if he was lucky, for the rest of his life.

Mathieu

“No,” Mathieu said. “There’s no fucking way.”

Wout shook his head. “I’m telling you, he really didn’t notice they’d switched out his multivitamins for laxatives for an entire week. He just thought maybe he’d been eating too much fiber.” He was smiling so wide his whole face crinkled up, making his eyes squinty. It was a good look on him. Mathieu had no idea why he spent so much time during rehearsal being dour and serious instead.

Mathieu laughed. “With friends like that, who needs enemies?”

“I think the conclusion we can draw from this story is that teenagers at university are bored and stupid, which means they’re inclined to come up with terrible pranks.” Wout took a sip of his tea, some kind of caffeine-free herbal thing he’d taken a liking to. Mathieu ended up staring at his lips, because, well, that was the natural place to look.

For a while there, Mathieu had considered inviting Wout back to his place and then stripping him out of his stupid business-casual button-downs and slacks, finding out whether those lips were good at other things besides reciting Shakespearean dialogue. But after one of the rehearsals last week, Wout had closed off a bit, stopped whatever thing that passed for flirting between them. He was still friendly, but it felt like a clear signal that Wout wasn’t interested.

Which was fine. Their scenes as Benedick and Beatrice had taken on a fun, new zing that felt good in the way that all the best acting felt good. That was the important thing. Their roles were safe. And if Mathieu still felt bits of Benedick’s adoration for Beatrice lingering in his chest long after rehearsal ended, well, that was normal. He spent most of the production of Hamlet in a funk so deep that it took the combined efforts of both Jasper and Tadej to get him out of it.

Wout continued, “Speaking of stupid pranks, I heard we might do Midsummer next year.” He took a bite of his now-habitual cookie.

Mathieu nodded. “It’s a popular one, and I don’t think we’ve done it for a few years.” He was both excited and terrified by what the director might come up with for that one. As a play, Midsummer encouraged maximalism with its faerie court, mysterious, mystical forest, young lovers in a complicated quadrangle, love potions, and a group of tradesmen-turned-amateur actors trying to stage a play within a play. Given how their Star Trek-themed Much Ado was shaping up, their director didn’t need any encouragement.

Wout asked, “If we do it, who do you think you’ll audition for?”

Just a month ago, Wout asking that question would have felt hostile, passive-aggressive, almost a challenge. Now, Mathieu could tell it was just simple curiosity. He thought about it, considering his options. “Titania,” he said. “She gets to have more fun than Oberon.” And besides, Wout — with his steady, serious authority — would be far better suited to playing Oberon, especially if they decided to double-cast Oberon and Theseus. Mathieu liked the thought of it, facing off against Wout again in another one of Shakespeare’s battles of the sexes, this time as the king and queen of the faeries. “What about you?”

Wout scratched at his chin. It made him look ten years older than he was. “I could audition for Oberon, but I was thinking it might be more fun to play one of the rude mechanicals.” The rude mechanicals were the terrible acting troupe putting on the play within the play who then get drawn into the war between Titania and Oberon, a major source of comedic relief in a play that was already very comedic. They weren’t parts that would naturally play to Wout’s strengths, but for Hamlet, after he’d lost out on the title role, he’d chosen to play doddering old Polonious and let Remco take on Hamlet’s main foil as Laertes. He did seem to like trying the unexpected from time to time.

“What, would you be interested in playing Bottom, then?” Bottom was the most significant of the rude mechanicals. Stupid and selfish, he gets turned into a creature with the head of a donkey by one of the faeries, and through Oberson’s trickery and a love potion, Titania falls in love with him and seduces him in her bower. Mathieu had only ever thought of the scene as the absurd comedy it was meant to be, but the thought of laying Wout down on a flowery bed performance after performance made his insides do a funny little twist. He considered making a joke about that, just to take the edge off the thought, but it was probably on the side of ‘off-limits’ since last week, and Mathieu didn’t want to make things weird.

“Maybe,” Wout said with a shrug. “He’s a challenging part. I want to see if I can pull it off.” He had a determined gleam in his dark eyes.

Mathieu tossed back his espresso before he could say something cheesy, like he believed Wout could do anything he put his mind to. “I guess we’ll have to see if it actually happens, then.” Mathieu loved performing with this group, but even he had to admit that organization wasn’t its strongest suit. He checked the time on his phone. “Shit, I better get going or I’ll be late for rehearsal.” He stood up, checking his pockets to make sure he still had everything.

“Have fun,” Wout said. He was still seated. Beatrice wasn’t in any of the scenes they were covering today, so he could go home and watch television or read a book or whatever boring things he did with his free time.

“I’ll try,” Mathieu said.

Mathieu was only a couple of minutes late to rehearsal, but that still earned him an I-will-kill-you-in-your-sleep glare from a stage manager. The director was in the middle of a conversation with Tom about Don Pedro’s costuming, something about what color uniform he should be wearing, so Mathieu thought the threats were entirely unnecessary.

He found an open seat next to Tadej in the audience and settled into it. Tadej was wearing a blank expression and staring at the far wall, which was just a plain off-white expanse, empty of any and all decoration. Mathieu understood that even someone like Tadej couldn’t keep up his level of enthusiasm and good cheer indefinitely, but since he loved acting, he almost always kept some reserves so he could be ‘on’ for rehearsal.

“What’s up?” Mathieu asked. He nudged Tadej’s arm with an elbow.

Tadej turned to him and gave him a wan smile. “They’re dating,” he said. “They’re fucking dating.”

Mathieu squinted at him, trying to decide if he had some sort of very localized amnesia and just forgot the first half of their conversation. “Uh, who?” Being a company of queer men and semi-adult theater kids meant that there was always an uninterrupted stream of relationship drama. Mathieu could not keep up with it all, and the thought of making the effort to do so felt tedious and boring. He suspected, based on Tadej’s reaction, that he knew one of the people involved, but didn’t want to make any assumptions. He had learned his lesson after sticking his foot in his mouth about Tadej and Jasper that one time. In his defense, they spent a lot of time talking about wanting to smash each other.

“Jonas and Wout,” Tadej explained. He said it with a dull, but practiced, quality, like he’d been repeating it over and over in his head for a while.

“Oh,” Mathieu said. He didn’t know what to make of it at first. He and Wout had never talked about romantic relationships, past or present. Mathieu didn’t have anything to say about them anyway, and Wout could be tight-lipped and good at dodging conversational topics he wasn’t interested in when he wanted to be. With how quiet and private Jonas was, he could have been dating King Phillipe for all anyone knew.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Tadej asked. His voice was very small.

“I don’t know,” Mathieu said. He thought about throwing an arm around Tadej’s shoulders, but their chairs were too far apart to do that without making it awkward.

“Did Wout— did he ever mention it to you?” Tadej’s eyes had taken on a watery sheen. Mathieu was not equipped to handle emotional meltdowns, and he could tell he was in the blast radius of this one. All he could do was attempt to defuse it as best he could.

“No,” Mathieu said, wondering why Wout had never bothered to hint at it. He felt a tinge of betrayal churning in his gut, which was just mirroring, an emotion felt on Tadej’s behalf. Mathieu didn’t care who Wout was dating, but he had thought Wout would be man enough to say something about it even if Jonas wasn’t. “I’m sorry.” This is why Mathieu didn’t bother with relationships. It was all just so messy. Much simpler to just fuck without letting any feelings get in the way. It was better to know now that Wout was the dating type, that if Mathieu ever did make a move, he would expect commitment or something out of it. (And also, better to know that if ever such an attempt was made, Mathieu would have to watch his back just in case Jonas was secretly a serial killer who would take offense at that.)

Tadej tried to smile again, and this one looked even more strained and pathetic than the last one. “At least they make a cute couple.” He had his phone out now, Instagram open, showing a photo of Wout and Jonas from the Macbeth wrap party. Wout’s arm was tossed over Jonas’ shoulder, and they were both smiling at the camera.

Mathieu resisted the urge to snort. If someone had asked him, he would say that Jonas and Wout together looked like a giraffe dating a chinchilla, but if Tadej was determined to be aggressively nice and well-meaning about this, Mathieu wasn’t going to be the one to stop him. “There’s other guys out there,” he said instead.

He decided the awkwardness was worth it, so he shuffled his chair over to give Tadej a half-hug and an encouraging squeeze to his shoulder. Tadej’s smile got a little better at that, and as a bonus, Mathieu didn’t have to look at that stupid picture anymore.

Remco

Dogberry. Fucking Dogberry. Yes, it had been months since the casting decisions had been announced, but Remco was still angry about them. He reserved the right to be angry about them forever. If pressed, he could concede that Dogberry had a good number of lines and a reasonably prominent role, but he was also a buffoon, no nuance or subtlety to him at all. Sure, Dogberry also saved the day at the end of the play, but it happened almost by accident. He didn’t even get half of the catharsis and tragedy of Malvolio, who only existed to be mocked throughout all of Twelfth Night.

Remco had no doubts that he would be fantastic at the part, just blow everyone else on stage out of the water when he finally made an appearance, but this casting was still an insult to him and his abilities.

“This casting is still an insult to me and my abilities,” Remco announced. He scrolled through his phone, looking at the websites, Facebook pages, Instagram accounts, of other local theater groups. One of them had to be capable of recognizing talent when they saw it.

Ilan, who would be playing his Verges, squinted at him. “Did you really invite me out to lunch just so you could complain about this shit?”

Remco jammed his fork into his salad. “No, I invited you out to lunch because I was hungry. Being able to complain about this shit is just a convenient side benefit.” He chowed down on a piece of lettuce and tried to do the mental math of fitting these auditions into his schedule without looking at a calendar. This group was holding auditions in about a month, and it might interfere with tech week on Much Ado. He decided against it. They were doing some modern thing that Remco had never heard of, and then he would have to read the play before deciding if it was worth even trying out for.

Ilan rolled his eyes and sighed. “Well, I know you’ve checked out already, but do you want to hear the latest hot gossip?”

Now it was Remco’s turn to roll his eyes. “Not in the slightest.” What did he care if Mattias had opened his big mouth and blabbed the wrong thing to the wrong person again or if Primož got so fed up waiting for someone to give him a speaking part that he Tanya Harding’d Jonas in his desperation? Remco was above all of that nonsense, and he was determined to stay that way.

Ilan shrugged and took a bite of his pasta. “Your loss. It’s pretty juicy. Everyone’s been whispering about it all week.”

Remco waved him off. “They’ll whisper for weeks about literally anything.” He turned back to his phone, where he had found a British group that was doing some sort of cross-cultural exchange and had ended up in Antwerp. They were holding auditions for Julius Caesar a week after the previous group’s auditions. That might mean they would overlap with performance week, but whatever. Remco’s schedule that week was more flexible than tech week would be. And he knew he would be an excellent Mark Antony. He bookmarked the page, reminding himself to go back to it and put it in his calendar when he had more time.

“You’re not thinking about quitting, are you?” Ilan asked.

Remco had considered it, but if he jumped ship for another production this far into his current one, he would get blackballed from every amateur theater group in Flanders, and as much as he resented it, that wasn’t worth the cost. “Of course not,” he said. He needed to show them all up anyway, make them all see what a huge mistake it had been, passing him over for Sepp, of all people.

Fucking Dogberry.

Chapter 3: Act III

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Many thanks to Stulti for once again feeding me information and ideas about theater and then cleaning up all my language afterwards. And also to and_nobody_noticed for cheering me as I slowly typed all of this up.

Jonas

“You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?” Jan asked. He wasn’t wearing the friar’s robes, but he held a bible in one hand and exuded a calm, caring ‘man of the cloth’ aura that conveyed his role in this scene just as well.

Tadej only glanced at Jonas for a brief moment — the only eye contact they’d had for at least a week — and uttered a cool, “No.”

Even though this was just part of the scene (probably) Tadej/Claudio’s chilly rage felt like a spike in Jonas’ chest. Hero wasn’t supposed to understand the full extent of what was going on yet, the full extent of Claudio’s rejection on their wedding day, so he tried to keep his smile intact. The brittleness of it helped the performance.

Nathan stepped in between them, a large and comforting presence separating them. “To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her.” His smile also had a desperate edge, but that was all acting on his part.

Jan turned towards Jonas next, “Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?”

Jonas looked at Tadej, who was still looking at Jan, body language stiff and uncomfortable. He always leaked emotion, and his anger was palpable. Jonas wished he understood what the fuck had happened between them. “I do,” he said. It came out hollower than he meant it to. He wanted it to be full of Hero’s genuine excitement and eagerness, but it was difficult to summon the energy for it.

At least Jan seemed unperturbed by all of this. He smiled, beatific. “If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls, to utter it.”

Tadej was willing to look at Jonas again for this line, and while it wasn’t what Jonas had hoped for, it was better than nothing. “Know you any, Hero?” he asked, his tone dark with insinuation.

Jonas shook his head, trying to convey his confusion and apology to Tadej with just his eyes. “No, my lord.” He didn’t know why Tadej had canceled on their last three, well, dates? line reading practices? Jonas wasn’t sure what to call them anymore now that they had stopped doing them. Maybe it was something Jonas had done, but Tadej had refused to answer any of Jonas’ texts and dodged him during rehearsals. Jonas could take a hint even if that hint sucked, so he had kept his distance, stopped trying.

His off-time had reverted back to its pre-Tadej routine, which felt quieter and duller than it had before. Jonas missed Tadej’s friendship even more than he missed the taste of Tadej’s lips, the press of Tadej’s warm body against his own. He had thought — hoped, maybe — that this whole thing between them could be more than just an acting-induced fling, that it would last beyond the wrap party. They hadn’t mentioned the future beyond a few references here and there. Jonas hadn’t been willing to push his luck since it had felt like he had pushed it pretty far already. Tadej was mercurial by nature, prone to bursts of enthusiasm that lasted until the next exciting thing caught his eye and became his next all-consuming passion. Jonas knew he couldn’t match Tadej’s energy, that by Tadej’s standards he was plain and ordinary. He had been waiting for Tadej to realize that his reserve wasn’t hiding any particularly interesting and mysterious hidden depths. Maybe he had, and that’s why he had dropped Jonas like a hot potato.

The scene carried on. Hero had a few short lines, and the rest of the time, it wasn’t difficult for Jonas to fake hurt and confusion as the accusations came flying in Hero’s direction.

“You seem to me as Dian in her orb, as chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; but you are more intemperate in your blood than Venus, or those pamper’d animals that rage in savage sensuality,” Tadej snarled, as Claudio accused Hero of being a slut, sleeping around with other men on the night before their wedding. His eyes were dark and angry with hurt. They’d done this scene before multiple times, played it at different levels of intensity. Claudio was meant to be angry and upset, but Jonas never seen Tadej this upset before. It made his heart feel bruised all over, knowing it was somehow because of him, because of something he had done.

Hero had the next line, and the words caught in Jonas’ throat, almost as if he were reverting to the version of himself from the early days of the rehearsal process, unable to make it three lines without stumbling. “Is my lord well,” he forced out, “that he doth speak so wide?” Jonas wasn’t a trained actor by any means, and he’d always treated it like the games of make-believe he’d played as a child, just putting on a costume and pretending. He barely even knew what method acting was. But in this moment, he felt like he was Hero, confused and hurt and unable to do anything to defend herself.

Jonas understood, in the way Hero couldn’t, that all of this was the result of a plot hatched by the villainous Don John, who had had one of his henchmen seduce Margaret, Hero’s gentlewoman, at Hero’s bedroom window while Don John brought Claudio and Don Pedro to look on, convincing them Margaret was actually Hero. The reasons why Tadej was angry at Jonas probably weren’t quite so simple. At times, Jonas wished he could alter the course of the scene, force the truth out earlier so at least once, Claudio wouldn’t break Hero’s heart.

But no, the scene had to play out the way it always did, and Jonas could only say his lines on cue.

Tadej hissed out, “O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been, if half thy outward graces had been placed about thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell, thou pure impiety and impious purity! For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love, and on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, to turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, and never shall it more be gracious.” Jonas felt very small and very vulnerable underneath the rage in his voice.

Hero swooned here, and Jonas had never liked it before, collapsing on the stage, but he liked it now. It meant he could close his eyes and pretend none of this was happening to him. And he could always trust Wout to catch him. Wout’s arms were strong and warm and familiar, almost like getting a hug on stage.

Jonas went through the rest of the scene in a half-hearted fugue state. Hero only had one speech left once she woke up from her fainting spell, but it wasn’t short, and Jonas couldn’t summon the energy he needed to deliver it properly. The director frowned at him, and even though he didn’t stop the scene, Jonas knew he would be hearing about this later.

Sure enough, after they finished the run-through, the director pulled him aside. “I don’t know what’s going on, Jonas, but you’ve been distracted lately. I need you to focus. Give your scene partners something to work with. I know this is your first big part, but you need to prove you deserve to be up there.”

Jonas didn’t have a good justification for what was going on, and he didn’t want to make excuses, so he just nodded mutely and accepted the criticism with a thin smile.

They ran through the scene a few more times. Jonas did a little better, even though Tadej’s Claudio seemed to get colder and crueler with every single line. Jonas took it as stoically as possible, but it was still a relief when he reached the part when he could faint into Wout’s arms again.

At the end of the night, while Jonas was packing up his things for the ride home, Primož stopped by, plopping down in a chair next to him. “I saw you were struggling today,” he said sympathetically. “The stress does get worse as we get closer to opening.”

Jonas wasn’t sure what to make of this. Was Primož here to give him advice? He had been full of it during their run of Macbeth, when Jonas was the Fleance to his Banquo, teaching Jonas how best to stand to project his voice and how to avoid getting smacked in the face by the curtains when you were in the wings. Things had been different between them since Primož had come back from his injury. The friendly, helpful Primož had become distant, a little cool, towards Jonas. Wout had mentioned he was frustrated about not having a part in Much Ado and was maybe a little resentful that Jonas now had something he didn’t.

Jonas cleared his throat. “I am just not feeling well right now. I appreciate you checking in.”

Primož nodded, his expression full of nothing but concern. “All right. Just know that if it ever gets to be too much, I am ready to take over. You wouldn’t be letting the production down.”

Jonas had no doubts that Primož was telling the truth. He did his best to smile. “Thank you,” he said as politely as he could manage. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pulled his backpack up onto his shoulders and headed towards the doorway.

He caught sight of Tadej on the other side of the room, head down in a conversation with the director about something. Jonas lingered for an extra moment, but Tadej didn’t glance in his direction once.

Jonas hoped that maybe he would feel better about all of this on the way home. He usually found his time on the bike soothing, time to decompress from whatever bothered him over the course of the day. But even the rhythmic turning of his pedals underneath his feet couldn’t shake the gnawing, unsettled sensation that had taken up residence in his chest.

Wout noticed, both because Wout noticed these sorts of things, and also because Jonas wasn’t capable of being subtle about it right now. “Are things okay?” Wout asked. Jonas couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine the furrow of Wout’s brow.

“Not really, no,” Jonas admitted. He was sleeping poorly, kept awake by his need to replay every single interaction he’d had with Tadej, trying to pinpoint the exact moment things had changed.

They came to an intersection. Wout made the turn first, and Jonas followed. When they were side-by-side again, Wout said, “I’m sorry.”

Jonas sighed, taking in a deep breath of the chilly night air. “I am too. I just– I wish I knew what I did. He won’t tell me.”

Wout gave him a short nod. “For what it’s worth, I could tell he really liked you.”

It was small comfort, but Jonas could appreciate the effort. “Thanks,” he said. They made it another block before he added, “I think I could use some additional help with the lines, now that I’m not working with Tadej anymore.” The conversation with Primož had shaken him up more than he wanted to admit. Jonas liked playing Hero. He had earned this part. He had worked hard on it. Maybe at the beginning, he’d have been willing to consider Primož’s offer, but now he wasn’t. Maybe the original plan had fallen apart, but the practice had still been helpful, and now Jonas knew what he needed to be successful.

“Of course,” Wout said. “We’ll figure something out, okay?” He flashed Jonas an encouraging smile, and then they continued their way home.

Mathieu

Mathieu did not care for work days. It wasn’t the work that bothered him. He could handle the work. It was just that work days always had the air of enforced cheer and mandatory team-building that all of their other terrible bonding activities did. If Mathieu never had to do another trust fall again, he’d be the happiest man alive.

Back when he and Wout weren’t speaking, work days always felt like a minefield. Their strategy of dealing with each other during rehearsals had been to avoid each other until they couldn’t anymore, but in those situations, their interactions were mediated by the director or the stage. Work days were far less structured, and it was harder to avoid Wout when he needed to ask him for a particular screwdriver or hand him a pile of stockings that someone else had handed him.

Now that they were speaking, Mathieu was almost looking forward to spending a work day with Wout. It would be a chance to see him in a different context, get a better sense of what made him the actor he was.

Today, they were building spaceship consoles. Mathieu had no idea what spaceship consoles were supposed to look like, but the set designer had a vision, and Mathieu did not give enough of a shit to dispute it. Instead of painting buttons or gluing a keyboard onto a wooden box, the set designer wanted switches and knobs and blinking colored lights.

Some of the other cast and crew were being pulled in to do props, building or finding all of the science fiction gizmos they would need, and others were responsible for helping the costume designer do some sewing. Mathieu always avoided sewing, because he was convinced the only thing he would accomplish would be to stab himself in the fingers repeatedly. He stuck by Wout’s side instead, since Wout seemed excited to be building overly complicated spaceship consoles, and it did seem like the safest option.

Working on the consoles did not teach Mathieu much about Wout’s acting, but it did teach him that Wout liked to poke his tongue out between his lips while operating power tools. He also, Mathieu had discovered while holding a plank of wood still while Wout drilled holes into it, had very steady hands. It was a good thing no one expected Mathieu to do anything complex or operate heavy machinery right now, because that sounded like a one-way ticket to the hospital.

“How’s Jonas doing?” Mathieu asked, somewhat desperately. He did not care how Jonas was doing in the least, but it seemed like a safe topic. Jonas wasn’t here today, and neither was Tadej. Mathieu had assumed that Jonas would be here because Wout was, and he was both grateful and disheartened to not have the buffer of Wout’s boyfriend right now.

Wout looked up from where he was poking through a box of assorted LED lights the set designer had given them. “He’s, well, he’s fine — but he’s going some personal stuff right now.” Mathieu wondered how much of that personal stuff had to do with Tadej, who was definitely not fine right now. The shift in Tadej’s mood was obvious to everyone. It had always sucked for Mathieu to be dropped as a friend because they’d been interested and he wasn’t, but maybe Jonas should have told Tadej about Wout sooner instead of letting the rumor mill get there first. Mathieu’s loyalties would always be with Tadej first.

“Right,” Mathieu said. “How are you handling it?” That must be one of Wout’s boyfriend duties, comforting Jonas through an awkward friend breakup. Mathieu had been forced to watch Wout tenderly cradle Jonas in his arms enough times during rehearsal after Hero’s fainting spell to have an idea of what they were like when they were alone.

Wout had turned back to digging through the disorganized pile of lights. “Hmm? Okay, I guess. Jonas tends to clam up when he’s upset. It’s usually better to let him process things on his own for a while.”

“You know him pretty well,” Mathieu said. He wondered what it was like, to have that level of familiarity, that kind of intimacy with another person. For once– for once, he could almost see the appeal.

Wout smiled, and his expression was so warm and so fond, Mathieu felt like his heart had been squeezed in between one of the workroom vises. Wout said, “Yeah, we’ve been through a lot together.” In that moment, Mathieu hated Jonas. Not only for doing whatever he had done to Tadej, but also because he was the one who put that look on Wout’s face.

It was the t-shirt’s fault, Mathieu decided. Mathieu had gotten too used to seeing Wout in his office-wear, collared shirts buttoned all the way up to the top and long sleeves that he never rolled up. For the work day, however, he had shown up in a t-shirt that was maybe a little too big for him, ratty and worn around the edges, showing off the paint stains from previous work days. The collar hung low enough that Mathieu could see the hollow of Wout’s throat, an edge of a collarbone, and it exposed the thick layer of hair that coated his forearms. And on top of all that Wout was just looser, relaxed and easy-going when dressed like this. It gave Mathieu ideas, ideas about what Wout was like when he was at home, the version of Wout only Jonas got to see. It felt pathetic to be jealous of a tiny Danish dude who seemed like he could only say two sentences at a time without passing out from exhaustion, but Mathieu was.

This was so much worse than just wanting to fuck Wout. This was wanting to be the person who got to see Wout when he was open and unguarded, the person Wout went home to at night, the person who Wout knew well enough to know exactly what he needed and when. Mathieu had never wanted like that before, but now he wanted it so badly his teeth ached with it.

“He’s lucky to have you,” Mathieu said.

“I’m lucky to have him, too,” Wout said.

Just after lunch, Jasper called.

“Sorry,” Mathieu said to the set designer, even though he wasn’t sorry at all. “I’ve got to take this.”

Wout wasn’t paying any attention to him. Wout was too busy threading lights through the holes he had drilled earlier. He gave Mathieu an absent nod. His tongue was poking out again, and Mathieu had felt like he was losing his mind for the last twenty minutes. Any excuse to get away from that was a relief.

Mathieu ducked into a quiet, empty room elsewhere in the theater building. It was more janitor’s closet than storage room, which was perfect, because then Mathieu didn’t have to worry about anyone trying to stash their props in it.

“You do know that you called in the middle of a work day, right?” Mathieu asked.

“What? Shit, that’s today? You know I can never keep track of the time difference. I thought it was yesterday.” Jasper said. He did have a tendency to lose track of things. Somehow during every performance he was a part of, a completely different vital prop of his would go missing, which always drove the props master up the wall.

“It’s fine. How’s Thailand?” Mathieu didn’t begrudge Jasper for having his fun, but he did miss having his particular brand of chaos around.

“It’s still fucking amazing. People are nice. Food’s delicious. Weather is incredible, so much better than that shit you’re getting in Belgium.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mathieu said, but he was smiling. It had been raining all week in Antwerp. Jasper had been texting him pictures of sunny beaches, and Mathieu had been appropriately jealous.

They chatted some more about Jasper’s misadventures in Thailand, including his attempts and failures to pronounce the small amount of Thai he had learned. Jasper was considering visiting Singapore next, in part because he’d cried while watching Crazy Rich Asians.

“So,” Jasper said after they’d exhausted that conversational topic. “What’s up with Wout?”

Mathieu blinked. “What?” he asked.

Jasper snorted. “Every time I’ve talked to you in the past month, you’ve brought him up. So how’s your new BFF doing?”

“He’s not my new BFF,” Mathieu insisted. He was suddenly very grateful this wasn’t a video call, because he could feel his cheeks and neck getting hot.

“Your new best frenemy, whatever.”

“He’s dating Jonas,” Mathieu grumbled before he could stop himself. He needed to complain about it to someone. Wout wouldn’t work for the obvious reasons, and Tadej was still being mopey and depressed about the whole thing. Jasper was the only remaining candidate, though he would take offense at knowing he was the last line of resort.

Jasper let out a low whistle. “No shit. That guy who never says anything? How long has that been going on?” He sounded more amused about this than anything else. Mathieu was already beginning to regret this.

“Nobody knows. They’ve been hiding it from everyone.”

Jasper paused for a moment before responding. “Wait. You’re, like, actually upset about this.” He laughed. “About time, I guess. I almost thought the two of you were going hatefuck it out of your systems back when we were doing the Henries.”

“It’s not funny,” Mathieu muttered. He hadn’t been regretting it before, he was definitely regretting it now.

“Sorry, dude, but this is actually hilarious. You and Wout.” He burst out into guffaws that made Mathieu wonder if anyone had invented a way to strangle someone over the internet.

“Fuck off,” Mathieu snarled. As if this whole thing weren’t humiliating enough already.

After this round of laughter subsided, Jasper suggested, “Maybe you just need to get laid. Go out clubbing. Take someone home. That way you can forget that your dream man is dicking down Jonas on the regular.”

Mathieu grimaced. He did not need that mental image. “I don’t think that’s the problem.” Yeah, he was jealous that Jonas was sleeping with Wout, but that was the easier feeling to handle. That could usually be solved by finding someone hotter to fuck. Mathieu was good at that part. Being jealous of Jonas for everything else was a messier feeling.

The silence over the line was deafening. “Holy. Fucking. Shit,” Jasper said, voice filled with awe. “You like him. You want to marry him and have his babies.”

Mathieu considered whether or not he could crowdfund this “strangling someone over the internet” idea. It was sure to make a killing once they figured out the technical details. “I hate you. I can’t believe we’re friends.”

“Chill out, dude. I won’t blab and ruin your hip bachelor vibes.”

“Thank you. Your generosity is overwhelming.”

“Is that why you’ve got a stick up your ass about this? You had one feeling and it messed with your self identity?”

Mathieu stared at the ceiling. The problem with Jasper was that he was an idiot. And unfortunately, like many of Shakespeare’s fools, he was also surprisingly observant. “I’m hanging up on you now,” Mathieu said.

“I know you have weird hangups about it because you don’t want to do anything your dad would approve of, but it’s not like you made a vow when you were seventeen that you have to keep for the rest of your life. You are allowed to change your mind.”

God, Mathieu knew he had completely lost the plot, because even Jasper was beginning to sound wise and insightful. “Yeah, okay,” Mathieu said, “that’s enough of that now. Bye, Jasper.” He ignored Jasper’s indignant protests from the other side of the line. “Let’s never do this again.” And then he hung up for real.

He took a moment to collect himself, surrounded as he was by a broom and the harsh smell of cleaning products. Maybe Jasper was right about him freaking out in part because he wasn’t used to all these confusing, mushy feelings, and he didn’t know what to do with this new version of himself who had them. Maybe Jasper was even right about his dad, which was an even more unsettling thought Mathieu refused to contemplate.

None of this mattered in the end. Mathieu’s feelings didn’t factor into anything. Wout was dating Jonas. Jonas was the person Wout had confusing, mushy feelings about. Mathieu would just have to get over it. Eventually.

Tadej

How many times could someone watch the Baz Luhrmann Romeo + Juliet in a row before it stopped being romantic and started being pathetic? Tadej didn’t know the answer to that, but he was pretty sure he’d passed that point several days ago.

He was spending this Monday doing what he spent most of his time when not working at the bakery or in rehearsals doing: camping out on his couch, buried under several layers of blankets, watching a young Leonardo DiCaprio be extremely pretty while brooding on a beach and pretending to write mediocre love poetry. A mountain of discarded tissues had piled up on the coffee table, right next to the empty plate that had, at one point, contained his dinner and the glass of water he was using to battle dehydration. He considered getting up and scooping himself a bowl of sadness ice cream, but then he might miss the Queen Mab drug hallucination, and half the reason Tadej loved this version was that seeing Mercutio in drag had taught him he was gay when he was a young, impressionable teenager learning English.

Tadej was under no illusion that he was handling any of this well. He could hold things together at work, and things were okay at rehearsal when Jonas wasn’t there. When Jonas was there, however, he felt like all of his internal organs had been turned into mincemeat, and he always needed at least two bowls of sadness ice cream afterwards. The problem was that Jonas was the same as he ever was — quiet and sweet and unbearably cute. He was different around Tadej, watching him big wounded eyes, but he wasn’t that different, and now Tadej knew that all the things he had liked about him were just a cover for a cheating cheater who only ever considered Tadej good enough to be a side piece.

On screen, Mercutio danced around in a wig and bra and high heels, mugging for the camera like it was his god-given right to do so. Mercutio was the real hero of the play as far as Tadej was concerned. He was snarky and brash and always fully himself at all times, and despite that, Romeo still loved him enough to murder Juliet’s cousin for him.

Tadej knew how he came across to other people. He liked to make people smile and laugh, liked to goof off and entertain others by doing so. It didn’t work on everybody, but Tadej didn’t know how to be any other way. He had thought that maybe Jonas had liked that about him. But maybe Jonas had done what so many others had done before him: decided Tadej’s personality meant that he wasn’t worth taking seriously.

He was shaken out of his reverie by a knock on the apartment door. Tadej would normally let his roommate answer it, because he wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone, strangers especially, but she had been strategically avoiding the apartment and Tadej’s depression couch as much as possible, so she wasn’t around to save Tadej from social interaction.

He slithered out from underneath his blankets and dragged himself to the front door. He was pretty sure it was just his next-door neighbor looking to be let into her apartment after locking herself out, and he didn’t need to make himself look presentable for her sake.

Of course, when he opened the door, Mathieu was the one standing there, looking like he’d actually showered in the last twenty-four hours. “Wow,” he said. “I thought Jasper was exaggerating when he said things had gotten bad at home, but he really wasn’t kidding.”

Jasper, Tadej was realizing, had a big mouth and was capable of opening it and blabbing all of Tadej’s secrets from halfway across the world. “I’m fine,” he said on instinct.

Mathieu’s eyebrows went up. “Well, that is a blatant lie. Do you have any idea how much you reek right now?” He pushed his way into the apartment before Tadej could stop him and deposited himself on top of the blankets, ruining the carefully constructed structural integrity of Tadej’s couch nest. “What are you watching?” Mathieu asked as he squinted at the television.

Tadej shrugged. “Romeo and Juliet.” He settled down on the couch next to Mathieu. The movie had progressed all the way to the pool scene, a re-staging of the classic (some would say cliche) balcony scene, full of swoony declarations that names meant nothing and their love could conquer anything.

Mathieu snorted. “It’s the most overrated of all his plays. They’re young and stupid. The tragedy is all just bullshit timing and dramatic irony, not from any interesting character flaws. The romance is so rushed and unrealistic even the other characters feel the need to comment on it. I can’t believe some people are convinced that it’s the greatest love story ever told.”

Tadej understood his criticisms, and they weren’t incorrect, but as the music swelled and Claire Danes and Leonardo DiCaprio stared adoringly into each other’s eyes, he felt every bit of the emotion in his chest, the way he always did when he saw good theater. “It’s about how hate destroys everything it touches, even love. That’s the real tragedy of the play.” He tried not to think of Jonas during these scenes, but seeing it play out always reminded him of how much he’d wanted a chance to read these lines with Jonas opposite him, regardless of whether or not they managed to do it in front of an audience.

Mathieu said, “I– I know this probably doesn’t help much or whatever, but he never deserved you anyway.”

Tadej had considered telling Mathieu several times about what he and Jonas had been up to, but at the time, it had felt fun and romantic keeping it secret. Now, it felt humiliating to let anyone know how badly Jonas had played him. He tried to smile. “I guess Wout got there first. It explains why he was being such a cock-blocking asshole, huh?”

Mathieu scowled. Tadej had thought maybe he’d enjoy a joke at Wout’s expense, even if they were somewhat friendly now. But Mathieu grumbled, “Wout’s too good for him, too.”

Well, that was an interesting reaction. Tadej would spend more time analyzing it if he were in any mood to think deeply about anyone else’s romantic feelings right now. He decided to say nothing. Mathieu looked put out as it was, and Tadej knew how prickly his pride could be. At least they were both in this misery together. It didn’t make Tadej feel good, exactly, knowing that Mathieu also wanted someone he couldn’t have and for the same reasons, but did make him feel a little less lonely, both in the figurative and literal sense.

They sat in silence for a long while, watching as Romeo and Juliet married in secret. Tadej used to love this part. It always got him crying the way attending weddings in person always got him crying. He loved watching people pledge their love to one another, the way they glowed with it, the way it always made him feel lit up from the inside, too. But now this scene just made him sad, all too aware of the tragedy to come.

“Are you going to be okay playing Claudio opposite him?” Mathieu asked later, when they watched the showdown between Mercutio and Tybalt on the beach.

Tadej sighed. That was the question, wasn’t it? Could he fake being in sweet, uncomplicated love for the next month, over their few remaining rehearsals and their two weekends of performances? Especially now that Jonas had taken Tadej’s heart and shattered it into subatomic particles? It would hurt, Tadej knew. It would hurt every time he had to hold Hero’s hands, gaze into Hero’s eyes, kiss Hero’s lips. But he loved performing too much, loved being Claudio too much, to give it up. “Yeah,” he said. He would have to move on, let Jonas — or at least his previous conception of Jonas — go. He didn’t want to be angry or upset anymore, didn’t want to let those miserable feelings consume him the way it consumed the Capulets and Montagues. It didn’t have to be forgiveness, but maybe it could look like it for a while.

“Good,” Mathieu responded. “You’re too good to quit because of this. Besides, who would take over for you, Primož? He’s way too old to play Claudio.”

“Jasper is younger than you, and he played your Falstaff,” Tadej reminded him, but he could feel the beginnings of a smile forming on his face. Maybe Mathieu’s half-assed attempt to cheer him up was working. “And Primož is only nine years older than me.”

Mathieu scoffed. “See? Positively ancient.”

On screen, Mercutio screamed, “A plague on both your houses!” as he died, and despite the tragedy unfolding in front of him, despite the deep-seated ache in his chest, Tadej laughed.

Wout

Wout tugged at the hem of his shirt. It was a little small on him, especially in the sleeves, and the shiny, plastic fabric itched against his bare skin. Wout could tell it wouldn’t breathe at all, which would make any sort of sweating on stage hell. He didn’t want to complain about it, though. Such was the price of good (well, okay, mediocre) theater.

Dress rehearsals were always chaotic. All the individual components of the production were coming together, and some of them integrated better than others. The lighting tech was grumpy about some of the costumes having a shiny, metallic, unfortunately reflective sheen, and the sound tech and set designer still could not agree — after several weeks of arguing about it — about the sound effects of the space station doors opening and closing. The props master was ready to break fingers after two props had already gone missing.

Even with all of that, Wout always loved seeing all the pieces clicking into place. Sure, acting was magic with just two people in a room trading lines back and forth, but each new element added a new layer to the experience. Acting was always different in costume, on sets, wearing a mic, underneath the bright glare of the stage lights.

“I feel like a kitchen appliance,” Nathan said. His costume seemed to fit better than Wout’s, but his was supposed to be a large, flowing robe, indicating Leonato’s age and authority. Unfortunately, the fabric was so stiff, it didn’t flow at all, and gave him a somewhat rectangular shape.

“At least we won’t have to hog the green room bathroom for the only mirror in this place. We can check our hair in each other’s costumes,” Wout replied. He and Nathan had always gotten along well. Nathan was solid and dependable, and his husband was an amazing cook.

Nathan laughed and gave Wout a hearty slap on the back. “I’m just glad this production won’t be boring.”

“Might be too early to say,” Wout said. He kept wanting to pull down his sleeves, but well, that was impossible.

He wandered around a bit, too restless to wait in the green room with everyone else, and he found Jonas in the hallway outside the dressing room the entire cast shared. He was dressed similarly to Wout, in the same jumpsuit shape that was meant to represent the uniform of the Space Station Messina. Unlike Wout’s, his was too big for him. The sleeves were long enough that they hung past his hands.

“How are you doing?” Wout asked. They pressed their backs against the wall, so the other cast and crew who were roaming the hallways could get by.

Jonas gave him a half-shrug, one shoulder tilting upwards. “Nervous,” he said.

Wout put a hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “It’s just the dress rehearsal.” They’d run through the play front-to-back several times already, and Wout knew Jonas had all his lines down cold. “It’s not even your first dress rehearsal,” he pointed out, referring to the ones for Macbeth and Hamlet where he’d had a handful of lines.

Jonas almost smiled. “It’s different like this,” he said. “It’s more real this way. Those other times, I was too busy working on crew things to notice.”

“It’s just like we’ve been practicing,” Wout promised. They’d been finding some extra time to work on line delivery and body language together. Wout was always willing to get more practice in, and Jonas had more free time now that he wasn’t working with Tadej anymore. “You’ll do great.”

That did earn Wout a small smile. “Thanks,” he said.

The smile faded instantly as the dressing room door burst open and Tadej spilled out. He was dressed in a uniform as well, but this one was more recognizable as a Star Trek uniform, like maybe the costume designer had gotten frustrated and just bought some discount post-Halloween costumes on sale. He took one look at Wout and Jonas standing there, and his face did something complicated. Wout thought maybe they’d at least get a polite hello, but he just turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

Jonas stared at his retreating back, his expression only just betraying his wistfulness.

“Still not talking to you?” Wout asked.

Jonas sighed and fiddled with the sleeves of his costume. “No.”

“It seemed like things were getting better.” Though their chemistry hadn’t recovered to the highs of where they’d been before their rift, Tadej was no longer playing Claudio like he hated Hero at first sight. It was a radical interpretation of the character that could work with the right production, but this production wasn’t it.

“They are,” Jonas said. “I just wish– I want him to talk to me again.”

Wout wanted to help, but Tadej wasn’t talking to him either, like maybe Jonas had gotten him in the divorce. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll be able to get through the performances, at least,” Jonas said. He said it without hesitation, and Wout felt a swell of pride at how far he’d come.

“That’s all we can do,” Wout said. He gave Jonas’ shoulder another squeeze before he went to see if he could get the costume designer to do something about these sleeves.

He wasn’t successful. The costumer designer was too busy fielding other requests and complaints, and Wout figured he could deal with it for the dress and five performances, and then he never had to wear this again. Instead, he wandered over to the wings of the stage, watching as the stage hands arranged the walls and consoles, preparing for the first scene.

It was a liminal space, shrouded in darkness, both on stage and not. Mathieu was there as well, clearly having had the same idea as Wout.

“My dear Lady Disdain,” Mathieu said when he caught sight of Wout approaching. He made a small, yet exaggerated bow. It was Benedick’s first line to Beatrice in the play, but he didn’t infuse it with any of Benedick’s sarcasm or mockery, just a wry, amused affection. “You look ridiculous.”

Wout tensed for a moment, his breath catching in his throat, but he forced his body to relax and take in a deep breath. He had been getting better at dealing with all of the emotional complications of his — his burgeoning crush on Mathieu. At least he didn’t feel like running away every time Mathieu smiled at him. Exposure therapy, maybe. “Thanks,” Wout said. “You don’t.”

Mathieu was dressed in one of the same Star Trek uniforms as Tadej, except his was blue instead of yellow. He could have looked like a kid playing dress-up in a cheap Halloween costume, like so many of their castmates did, but Mathieu carried it off by being poised and confident in it, every bit the dashing military officer.

He had gone quiet at Wout’s comment, even though Wout had only meant it as a simple statement of fact. It had been like this between them since Tadej and Jonas’ mysterious breakup. He didn’t quite blow hot and cold so much as warmer and cooler, as if he was constantly fiddling with some internal thermostat, trying to find the right temperature that allowed him to remain loyal to Tadej but still friendly with Wout. “Thank you,” he said eventually.

They stood there in silence as the stage hands completed the bridge of the space station, going as far as to flick on the lights of the consoles. The LEDs Wout had installed blinked at them, red, green, blue.

The stage manager announced places, and Wout could feel a coil of anticipation in his gut. It wasn’t the same as it was before a real show, but it was close. He had worked on this for months, practiced every part of it from every angle. He had drilled this performance into his body, and now his body wanted to show off what it could do.

Mathieu turned to look at him, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Jonas, flanked by Nathan. Sepp trailed behind both of them.

“Are you ready?” Jonas asked Wout.

Mathieu had shut his mouth, and now he was glancing between them with thinly disguised distaste. Tadej must have really said something to Mathieu to get Mathieu to dislike Jonas so much.

“Yeah,” Wout said.

He gave Mathieu a small nod before following Jonas out onto the stage, Nathan at his side. He found his mark, found his Beatrice, and then there was nothing left to do before the curtains parted and the play began.

Chapter 4: Act IV

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Once again, thanks to Stulti for cleaning up my prose and for suggesting the helmets in the wedding scene. I’m sorry this chapter was so massive.

Jonas

Tadej was right; it was different with an audience. Jonas tried not to squint underneath the bright stage lights, and did his best to ignore the many eyes honed in on, well, not just him, since Hero didn’t have many lines in the opening scene, but all of them together.

The first scene of opening night. Jonas focused on his own breathing as the projector flickered to life, illuminating one of the walls at the back of the stage. The messenger, played by one of their long-time stagehands, Robert, appeared on screen. The wall behind him was black, but Jonas knew he was tucked away in some storage room backstage with a backdrop set up behind him.

Nathan turned toward the projected image. Jonas could tell when he was settling into character. It was something about the way he tilted his head, the way he set his shoulders. He said, “I learn from this message that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.”

Robert nodded. “He is very near by this; we are not three leagues off.”

Jonas remembered some of their earlier rehearsals, Robert reading these lines from the audience. The actors on stage had stared at a blank wall while rehearsing the scene for so long that having an actual image to look at was a novelty. Now that they had the rest of the set — the painted walls, the blinking lights on the consoles, the background hums and chirps provided by the sound booth — it all filled him with the same awe he had felt the first time he’d seen Hamlet at the tender age of fifteen.

Nathan squinted down at the tablet in his hand, though there was nothing displayed on it. “I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honor on a young Florentine called Claudio.”

Robert nodded, expression barely changing. He wasn’t the most demonstrative of actors, but he could get himself around the words convincingly enough. “Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by Don Pedro: he hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how.”

Jonas smiled to hear it. Even with the strain between him and Tadej, whatever part of him he had dedicated to Hero felt warm and pleased whenever Claudio was praised.

Wout had been focused on one of the consoles, but now he swiveled in his chair, standing up to face the screen as well. “I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no?” he asked, an arch undertone to his voice.

There was a light tittering from the parts of the audience who were familiar with the play.

Robert blinked at him, still stone-faced. “I know none of that name, lady: there was none such in the fleet of any sort.”

Nathan frowned at Wout, acknowledging him. “What is he that you ask for, niece?”

It was Jonas’ turn to speak, and he did so with a smile. “My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.” He infused the words with a teasing lilt, since Hero was all too aware of how much Beatrice liked Benedick and was unable to say anything about it.

Wout glared at him, but it was all acting, no heat behind it at all, and Jonas had to hold back a laugh because he didn’t want to interrupt the scene.

Robert said, “O, he’s returned; and as pleasant as ever he was.”

Wout nodded, seeming to accept the news with grace, but then he smirked. “I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars?” He paused, considering, before continuing. “But how many hath he killed? For indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.”

That got a full belly laugh from the crowd. Wout’s delivery was biting, sharp, an obvious punchline. Jonas started to feel it now, the way an audience could fuel a performance. Even though they were doing all the things they had already rehearsed a hundred times before, every move and every line felt brighter and fresher with so many more people watching and listening.

Beatrice gleefully continued her roast of Benedick to the confused messenger. Hero didn’t have any more to do for a minute, so Jonas settled into one of the swiveling chairs to enjoy the show, same as everyone else.

Although he knew exactly when the next entrance was coming, Jonas’ spine still tensed as Nathan glanced at his tablet as if he had just gotten a notification. “Ah, Don Pedro is approached,” he announced.

The space station doors at the back of the set slid open. There was meant to be an accompanying sound effect, but it played a full second too late. The sound tech and the set designer were still at odds, then. Tom entered first, flanked by Mathieu and Tadej. Sepp lagged a few steps behind. He had won the fight about the ears, much to their makeup artist’s dismay.

“Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it,” Tom said. His smile was bright and warm, charismatic and gregarious. He held out a hand.

Nathan smiled back and shook it. “Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace: for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave,” he replied, open and welcoming.

That was Jonas’ cue to play the obedient daughter and hostess. He fetched a tray of glasses filled with a milky blue liquid. Jonas had no idea what it was made of, but it had a faint chemical scent, and he was certain it was some sort of evil genius chemistry experiment concocted by the props master and should not be consumed by anyone.

Tadej watched him as he worked, which made the back of his neck prickle. It was just Claudio falling in love at first sight, a frequent Shakespearean trope, but Jonas still liked the weight of Tadej’s attention. For a while there, every bit of that attention had felt cold, poisonous, but now it just felt distant. Jonas would take every bit of improvement he could get.

He approached the four guests standing center stage. He offered the tray to Tom first, who took a glass and gestured with it as he said, “You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter.”

Jonas stood still as Nathan placed both hands on Jonas’ shoulders. He kept his eyes downcast. Hero was demure and sweet, and Don Pedro was an important man. Nathan joked, “Her mother hath many times told me so!”

Mathieu stepped into the conversation, swiping a drink from Jonas’ tray with careless arrogance. “Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?”

That was another laugh from the audience, delighted to hear Benedick start off with his many witticisms and jokes.

Tom laughed heartily at that. With his free hand, he gave Mathieu a cheerful slap on the back. “Truly, the lady fathers herself.” To Jonas, he gave a softer, warmer smile. “Be happy, lady; for you are like an honorable father.”

Nathan let Jonas go then, giving him an exaggerated push towards the other two guests. Sepp’s expression was stormy, a dark scowl marring his face. It didn’t matter how many times Jonas saw it, Sepp’s Don Jon was always startling. He was normally the sunniest of the entire cast and crew, always smiling and friendly, with a kind and encouraging word for anyone who needed it. He took a glass from Jonas’ tray with a stiff, formal nod.

Mathieu carried on with Benedick’s mocking tirade. “If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is.”

Jonas wasn’t looking in their direction, but he heard it when Wout responded, raising his voice to challenge him. “I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.”

The audience roared in response.

Tadej was the only person Jonas had left to greet, and he was gazing at Jonas with Claudio’s open adoration. Jonas took one step towards him. He couldn’t explain what happened next. He stumbled, almost tripping on thin air. For a moment, he was convinced the tray would topple over, spilling the mystery liquid all over both their costumes and ruin both the rest of the play and Jonas’ relationship with the costume designer forever.

But he caught himself at the last moment, finding his feet again, and Tadej was there, hands steadying his hip and elbow. They’d touched, even kissed since their falling out, but that had been carefully planned out and blocked, choreographed as part of the play. This felt different. Tadej even shot him a reassuring smile, not so different from the ones he would give Jonas during their line readings when Jonas just could not get his mouth to form the correct words. It wasn’t Claudio smiling at him. This was pure Tadej.

He was so distracted by the moment that Jonas almost missed his favorite part of the scene: watching Wout and Mathieu spar as Beatrice and Benedick.

Mathieu’s Benedick had a harder edge than some of the other Benedick’s Jonas had seen, but his eyes tracked Wout as he drifted across the stage, the tension between them palpable, and his coldness made Benedick’s transformation over the course of the play all the more dramatic.

Early on in rehearsals, Wout had matched Mathieu’s energy, turning Beatrice’s wit icy and mean, but over the months, he’d shifted her towards being warmer, wry and amused by Benedick’s antics, even as she parried his jabs and returned them.

The audience ate it up, and Jonas did too.

After Benedick and Beatrice had their introductory exchange, Nathan had a few more lines, as did Tom, as Leonato continued his welcome of Don Pedro to Messina. Sepp even got a moment to show off Don John’s “melancholy disposition” to the audience, glowering his way through his introduction to Leonato.

Then most of them were meant to exit so that Leonato could show Don Pedro and the rest of his men their accommodations while Benedick and Claudio had a conversation. Jonas lingered for an extra moment to see if he could catch Tadej’s attention one more time. When their eyes met, Jonas smiled at him, rationalizing that it was what Hero would do. To his pleased surprise, Tadej genuinely smiled back.

It wasn’t quite a reconciliation, but it was — it was more than they had before. Jonas wished he could stay, watch from the wings as Tadej and Mathieu played off each other and talked of Claudio’s plan to woo Hero, but he had a costume change before the big masquerade ball on the holodeck in Act II.

He followed Wout off stage. “How are you holding up?” Wout asked.

“Good,” Jonas said. It was the truth. He felt prepared, ready for the rest of the play. And, well, the memory of Tadej’s smile at the end there could warm him for the rest of the night.

Wout

Wout came off stage, idling in the hallway just outside the stage doors. He would be needed in the next scene, so it didn’t make sense to go all the way back to the green room. His heart was still racing from the adrenaline of a live performance, and he wanted to laugh out loud with the pleasure of it. His giddiness would linger long after the play ended and the theater emptied, and this is why he came back to this year after year, giving up nights and weekends. Just for this.

Jonas and Wilco passed by him, since they entered the scene first, and they gave him a small nod. Mathieu was less than a minute behind him, the last person to clear the stage before the stagehands could swap out the existing chairs and consoles for some potted plants of varying sizes, transforming the engine room into a greenhouse.

While the wings always felt special, hidden away and shrouded in darkness, the hallway was lit by sterile fluorescents, and the oddity of their costumes and props felt even odder out here in contrast with the pasty white walls and tiled floors.

Mathieu also lingered in the hallway, even though he didn’t have a reason to, smiling and flushed, still glowing with both Benedick’s newfound realization of love and that high they all got from performing in front of an appreciative crowd. “Hey,” he said to Wout. He made a vague gesture with his hands, mouth opening and closing, at a loss for words. His smile softened.

Wout understood what Mathieu meant. They understood each other, felt this same thrill that couldn’t be replicated by anything else. Even when they’d been rivals, barely able to stand each other, they’d had always had this in common. Wout saw the way it affected Mathieu night after night, though it had always been from a distance.

“Sorry! Coming through!” the costume designer hissed. He shoved a rolling coat rack laden with masquerade costumes down the hallway.

Mathieu shuffled out of the way, which put him closer to Wout, close enough that Wout could see the fine sheen of sweat on his neck, an inevitability in these costumes and under the hot stage lights. He smelled like industrial-strength deodorant.

Wout was familiar with his reaction to Mathieu’s proximity, that twist of desire low in his gut, but he was still high on the endorphins from the performance, and the usual discomfort didn’t take hold.

Mathieu was staring at him now, his eyes a piercing blue. Sometimes attention like that niggled at Wout’s brain, the parts he’d always associated with Nick, but Mathieu’s gaze didn’t pick Wout over, didn’t carry a hint of appraisal or judgment. “I just–” Mathieu said. “You’re really fucking good. Out there. I just wanted you to know that.” One corner of his lips curled upwards. Wout wanted to trace the line of it with his fingers.

He realized Mathieu was waiting for some sort of response when Mathieu ducked his head, a trace of pink chasing its way across his high cheekbones. Wout had been waiting for a follow-up to the compliment, a request or demand or even just some way of turning it into an insult, but none of that had been coming.

“Thank you,” Wout said. “I–” He thought of reaching out, cupping Mathieu’s chin in one hand, erasing whatever discomfort he was going through with touch, but he felt stuck, paralyzed. There was a knot in his chest, tangled up feelings wound tight, a hardened lump at the center of him.

From just inside the stage door, Mattias whisper-yelled, “Wout, we need you in place!” before disappearing again into the darkness. He, Jonas, and Wilco started the scene on stage, conspiring on their plan to convince Beatrice to fall in love with Benedick. Wout would need to be ready for Mattias to come ‘fetch’ him so that Beatrice could overhear Hero and Ursula talking about her.

Wout turned to go, but before he could leave, Mathieu caught his arm. “See you in Act IV,” he said. His smile was back, small and soft, though there was some strain at the corners of it. His fingers were hot against Wout’s exposed skin.

“See you then,” Wout said. Mathieu let him go, and he followed Mattias back towards the stage. He needed to focus on his job here, even if the twenty to thirty minutes it would take to get through Act III would feel like hours.

Wout considered himself a reasonably coordinated person, but he still almost walked into the set’s space station door several times while trying to make his entrance. He could blame the contradicting information given to the stagehands responsible for opening and closing the “automatic” doors about what the cue should be, but he knew some of it was just his own distraction.

“No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful,” Jonas was saying. The greenhouse set had a simple metal table and chairs set up downstage. Jonas and Wilco sat facing each other, supposedly playing some sort of 3D chess, but Wout knew they were just moving plastic chess pieces around a few square metal plates glued to a tiered serving tray.

Wout ducked behind one of the larger, leafier plants, but it was still on the smaller side, and some of its leaves were droopy and browning. He knew it did not do a great job of actually hiding him, but that didn’t matter. His part in this scene was mostly physical comedy, only one speech at the end. He needed to embrace the absurdity of trying to squeeze his body behind objects that were wholly inadequate for the task. It seemed to work, because he got titters from the audience.

Wilco pitched his voice loud and obvious in Wout’s direction. “But are you sure that Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?”

Wout popped his head out from behind the plant, showing Beatrice’s shock and surprise on his face. He ducked back down again when Jonas glanced in his direction, which also got him a laugh. “So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.”

Wilco and Jonas went back and forth for a bit, talking in extravagant terms about Benedick’s secret passion. Wout hammed up his reactions for the audience, a cheap but effective tactic. He was still out of sorts, stuck on that interaction with Mathieu in the hallway. He had no idea what it meant. Mathieu didn’t give out compliments often, and he still seemed to be especially grudging when it came to giving out compliments to Wout, some lingering aftereffect of their previous resentment.

Jonas said, “No; rather I will go to Benedick and counsel him to fight against his passion. And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders to stain my cousin with: one doth not know how much an ill word may empoison liking.” He delivered the lines with aplomb, and Wout was proud of him. Most of this scene was a two-hander between Hero and Ursula, heavy on the dialogue, and Wout knew how nervous Jonas had been about getting through the entirety of it in one piece. He was carrying the burden well. His version of Hero wasn’t the most demonstrative, but she had a gentle and quiet dignity which made her eventual shaming by Claudio all the more devastating.

Wilco responded with, “O, do not do your cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment — having so swift and excellent a wit as she is prized to have — as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.” He put extra emphasis on those last words, almost cartoonish in his shock and surprise.

Jonas grinned, his expression impish. “He is the only man of this quadrant.” He paused, and a wistful smile crossed his face. “Always excepted my dear Claudio.” That look seemed more natural tonight than it had during those last few weeks of rehearsals, as if it were no longer marred by his complicated feelings about Tadej. Maybe it was just the audience, the heightened energy of a live performance, but Wout hoped Jonas was able to put more of that hurt behind him.

“Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, for shape, for bearing, argument and valor, goes foremost in report through this quadrant.” Wilco said, his head still partially tilted in Wout’s direction. It lacked subtlety, but it didn’t need any. They weren’t performing for a sophisticated modern audience. They were performing for Beatrice, and Beatrice, for all of her cleverness, wanted to be fooled. Wout was convinced of it. This whole scheme would have fallen apart otherwise.

Jonas nodded approvingly as he said, “Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.” He made a confident, decisive move on the board with a flourish.

Wilco sighed and toppled his king over. “His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.” He stood up and offered Jonas his hand. “When are you married, madam?”

Jonas took it, standing up and collecting the board and its pieces. “Why, every day, tomorrow.” He and Wilco walked toward the sliding doors, right past the plant Wout was hiding behind. “Come, go in: I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.”

As they passed by Wout’s plant, he dove towards another, much smaller plant. This one did an even worse job of hiding him, which got another approving laugh from the audience.

They exchanged some teasing lines about catching Beatrice in a trap, and with girlish giggles, the two of them exited the stage, leaving Wout alone. Wout thought it was deeply unfair that they didn’t seem to have any problem with the door.

He stepped out from behind the plant, taking his place center stage. This was one of Beatrice’s longer monologues, and Wout could feel the audience’s eyes, all of their attention, focused in on him. Maybe it should have been terrifying, but Wout never experienced it that way. He liked knowing they were hanging on his every word. He reached inside for where he had built up Beatrice, where he’d constructed her out of pieces of himself, good and bad, and he spoke. “What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?” He took a breath, a pause. Here was where she opened her mind and let down her guard. “Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such.” With every word, every sentence, she laid herself bare and let herself fall. “And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.” Even though Wout wasn’t Beatrice, and she wasn’t him, he let himself feel her love for Benedick. It was sweet and rich, melting on Wout’s tongue. “If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee to bind our loves up in a holy band.” The knot in his chest loosened and unraveled. He wanted to be brave like Beatrice, and maybe he could borrow some of her bravery for a while. “For others say thou dost deserve, and I believe it better than reportingly!” He let out a lovestruck sigh, and it was impossible not to think of Mathieu in the hallway again. The quiet ferocity of his words, the heat of his hand on Wout’s arm. Could Wout let himself feel this, the full intensity of it? Beatrice could, and Wout let all of her emotions bleed into his own. It was safe here, within the confines of the stage. Maybe he would feel differently when he left it. But it still felt good, warm and bright and joyous. He hoped the audience could feel that too.

He didn’t walk into the spaceship doors again when exiting the scene, but it was a near thing. Wout couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Remco

“You’re late,” the stage manager said frostily. “We were thinking of sending Primož out in your place.”

Remco waved him off and resisted the urge to scoff. Replace him? With Primož? What a joke. Sure, Primož was fine for a washed-up has-been, and it was hardly like Dogberry required any great skill, but there was no comparison between them. Remco was the superior choice every time. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Remco said. “You don’t need more for the first half of the play.” And besides, he’d told them he might miss call by a minute or twenty, though he hadn’t told them the reasons why.

Dogberry’s first appearance was in Act III, and all Remco had missed by skipping Acts I and II was Jonas and Tadej making gross kissy faces at each other. His audition for Julius Caesar, on the other hand, had gone swimmingly. He was sure Mark Antony was his, and then he wouldn’t have to deal with this worthless, garbage company anymore.

He barged into the dressing room and pulled on his ugly, yellow Starfleet uniform before heading to the green room. The director had decided to flip the order of Scenes 3 and 4 for god knows what reason, which gave Remco more time to prepare. Dogberry’s introduction was Scene 3.

The green room was somewhat sparsely populated. Tadej, Tom, and Sepp were on stage, closing out Scene 2, while Wout, Jonas, Mattias, and Wilco were waiting in the wings for Scene 4. Remco did not miss any of them at all.

Louis, Pieter, and Mattia — the watchmen — were deep in conversation when Remo entered. Remco did his best to ignore them, because he needed to go through his vocal warmups. Granted, he was reasonably warmed up, seeing as he had just come from an audition, but he had a process, even if this dogshit production didn’t deserve it.

Before he could get settled in, however, he overheard some of the conversation, and well– “You’re wrong,” he announced. Remco hated when people were wrong when they were in earshot. His life would be so much easier if everyone was better at keeping how wrong they were to themselves.

The trio’s discussion jerked to a halt. All three of them stared at him like he’d grown another head.

Mattia blinked owlishly. “What’s wrong?”

Remco waved a hand. Why did he always need to explain himself to these idiots? “Your whole stupid theory about Wout and Jonas dating. It’s just obviously not true.”

Louis sighed. “Remco, you haven’t been around that much, and you haven’t been paying attention. Primož said Mattias saw–”

They had garnered attention from the peanut gallery, all the other actors in the room who were apparently so dull they had nothing better to do than lap up bad second-hand gossip. Only the knitting circle in the corner was ignoring the outburst. Even Mathieu, who usually kept to himself in the green room, looked up from where he was reviewing his script.

Remco snorted. He looked around for Ilan, who would back him up on this. “Mattias loves to blow shit out of proportion and create drama just because he’s bored. Jonas has obviously been pining after Tadej, and Wout wants to fuck Mathieu.” Seriously, none of this was complicated. It was obvious to anyone with eyes and a functioning brain, but since this was the company who had passed him over for Don John, maybe he was expecting too much from them.

“But–” Pieter protested, clearly ready to launch into another pointless argument.

Remco did not have the patience for this. “Nathan,” he snapped. “Are Wout and Jonas dating?”

Nathan looked up from his needles and scarf. “What? No, they’re not.” His expression was one of complete bafflement. It was a terrible look on him, but at least it was a reasonable reaction to this situation.

“They are!” Louis insisted. “They’ve just been hiding it from everyone.”

It was an absurd claim, made even more absurd by the fact that Nathan was closer to Wout and Jonas than anyone else here. Nathan somehow managed to look even more confused. “Why would they do that?”

Mattia said, “Because they didn’t want us to know about it.”

Ilan had finally decided to show up. “I think that’s a tautology,” he added.

The three of them looked at each other, but not one could come up with a compelling counterargument.

“Good,” Remco said. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, I have some notes for the upcoming scene. Louis, you need to speak up and stop mumbling. You’re playing an idiot, but no one is going to laugh if they can’t hear anything you say. Mattia, you’re too far to the left. From the audience, it looks like you’re talking into Louis’ shoulder. Pieter, I have no idea what you’ve been doing with your face, but it looks pathetic, not funny.”

The three of them rolled their eyes at him almost in unison. It would be impressive if they were capable of utilizing that coordination on stage. Then they started to talk about something else as if they hadn’t heard a word Remco had said.

Remco scowled. Definitely not good men and true.

Mathieu

Remco’s little interference caused a stir all the way through the intermission between Act III and Act IV. Not a full-on whirlpool, maybe more of a ripple. Few people were willing to talk about it openly, and definitely not when Wout and Jonas were around. They at least at the decorum to pretend they hadn’t been talking about the two of them behind their backs for weeks on end.

Mathieu was also reeling from this little revelation, but he was classy enough to keep his feelings to himself. Wout wasn’t dating Jonas. Or if he was, he was keeping it so secret that even Nathan didn’t know about it and didn’t believe it. There was the possibility that Wout had some other secret boyfriend somewhere, but Nathan would have mentioned him, wouldn’t he? Mathieu wanted to talk to Wout about it directly, but he refused to do it anywhere in front of the gossiping biddies of the cast and crew. Before he could form a plan (he really was bad at plans), Act IV started.

The set had been rearranged to resemble a chapel. It had the same space station walls, but all the rest of the interior decorations were cleared away to make space for a raised podium. An awkwardly large cross hung in the background.

It was a busy scene. This was the original, planned wedding between Hero and Claudio, and it brought together a good portion of the cast.

Mathieu still couldn’t take his eyes off Wout. Wout’s wedding costume wasn’t as shiny as Beatrice’s usual uniform, but it was still too wide in the shoulders and waist. It looked like a lime green potato sack. Mathieu was pretty sure it was the insanity speaking, but Wout still looked fuckable.

Mathieu still didn’t have a good explanation for why he had pulled Wout aside at the end of Act II. Maybe he’d had Benedick’s adoration buzzing underneath his skin, or maybe it was just because he fucking loved trading barbs with Wout’s Beatrice. Mathieu had been acting for most of his life, through school plays, drama camps, university productions, but he was willing to admit he’d never had a scene partner like Wout. Wout’s energy was a spark that lit Mathieu up from the inside out, and even when they couldn’t stand each other, it had forced him to be better, to not only keep up but push ahead. He’d wanted Wout to know that, even if he couldn’t find the words for it.

But that had been when Mathieu had thought Wout was taken, in love with Jonas even. Now that Mathieu knew he wasn’t, he had no idea what to do with himself.

The scene began with Jan’s friar trying to marry Hero and Claudio. Benedick had a few interjections as the wedding fell apart under Claudio’s anger and feelings of betrayal. Tadej and Jonas were both appropriately emotional about the whole thing, and when Jonas collapsed into Wout’s arms, Mathieu didn’t even feel his usual twinge in his chest. He could just stand back and admire the ferocity on Wout’s face as he snarled out, “O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!” looking every bit like he would rip apart anyone who had ever hurt Hero’s feelings.

And then– at the end of the scene, it was just the two of them alone on stage as the tattered remnants of the wedding left to enact a ridiculous plan to pretend Hero had died in her grief. Mathieu still didn’t understand why that part of the story was necessary, but Shakespeare loved having characters fake their own deaths.

Wout sat on the top step of the podium, his face wet with tears, but his expression was still composed, like he was holding them back.

Mathieu knelt in front of him. He wasn’t supposed to reach out yet, but he wanted to. “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

Wout brushed his fingers underneath his eyelids. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”

Mathieu said, “I will not desire that.” Benedick felt helpless in that moment, caught up in his desire to be closer to Beatrice and not knowing how to bridge that gap.

Wout turned away, still carrying Beatrice’s pride in his shoulders. “You have no reason; I do it freely.”

“Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged,” Mathieu insisted as Benedick tried to win back her attention.

“Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!” Wout hissed. Beatrice’s rage was palpable, though it was kept in check by her resolve.

Mathieu placed one hand on Wout’s knee, and it was his own desperation as much as Benedick’s for Beatrice’s attention that he asked, “Is there any way to show such friendship?” What would it take to win that from Wout himself? Mathieu didn’t know how to date. He didn’t even know how to ask for this in his own words.

“A very even way, but no such friend.” Wout looked at him again, and his gaze was cool and appraising.

Mathieu wanted– Benedick wanted to be found worthy by Beatrice, by Wout. “May a man do it?”

“It is a man’s office,” Wout said. He paused. “But not yours.” The dismissal might as well have been a slap. It stung.

Mathieu swallowed. This was a big line, the turning point in their relationship. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you.” His voice had gotten softer without him intending it to, like he had wanted to keep it just between the two of them, even as the audience watched with silent, rapt attention. “Is not that strange?” he asked around the lump in his throat. It was Mathieu speaking now, not Benedick, and he felt uncomfortable, exposed in a way he never did while acting.

Wout reached out, cupped one of Mathieu’s cheeks in his hand. His eyes looked straight at Mathieu, straight through him. He felt like he’d been punched in the solar plexus, all of the breath knocked out of him. Wout said, “As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.”

“By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.” Benedick could say that with awe and admiration. Mathieu just felt vaguely sick. He couldn’t say with any confidence how Wout felt about him.

“Do not swear, and eat it,” Wout shot back.

Only two months ago, rehearsing this exchange felt like getting his fingernails ripped off. Wout had been dull and cold, and Mathieu had been convinced he would never be able to find Wout interesting or desirable, even fictionally. And now— now Mathieu was convinced he was going to vomit on stage because he couldn’t keep it together. “I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you!”

“Will you not eat your word?” Wout asked wryly. Beatrice was still skeptical of Benedick’s declaration.

“With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.” The feeling crawled its way into his chest now. He needed to talk to Wout about this as soon as the scene ended. He couldn’t— he couldn’t wait a moment longer.

Wout said, “Why, then, God forgive me!”

“What offense, sweet Beatrice?”

“You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.” It almost hurt, to see the way Wout’s eyes shone and to know it was Beatrice’s feelings for Benedick. None of it was for Mathieu at all.

“And do it with all thy heart,” Benedick insisted. Maybe Mathieu was going to be putting his heart through a paper shredder after this, but it would be worth it. Wout was worth it.

“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.” Wout’s voice had gone soft as well. Beatrice’s line was tinged with a quiet surprise at the depth of her own feelings.

They kissed then. It was a stage kiss, dry and chaste. They had choreographed it, rehearsed it. It was almost barren of real feeling. Mathieu still wanted it to last forever.

They exited the scene from opposite sides of the stage — Beatrice to the right so she could comfort Hero through her pain, Benedick to the left so he could find Claudio and challenge him to a duel.

Mathieu still tracked Wout down afterward, grabbing hold of Wout’s hand and dragging him into the (thankfully empty) dressing room. He locked the door behind them, which might give Wout the wrong impression, but the last thing Mathieu wanted was for someone to barge in on this conversation.

“Uh, is there something going on?” Wout asked. His forehead furrowed in confusion.

“Are you dating Jonas?” Mathieu asked before he could come up with a more tactful way of phrasing it.

“Um, no,” Wout said. He just looked more perplexed by the question. “I don’t know why everyone always thinks that, but no, we’ve never dated. Is this really why you dragged me in here?”

“No, it’s not. Well, kind of, yes, but also–” Mathieu pushed Wout back, up against the nearest wall, and did the thing that had been haunting him, plaguing him for weeks: he kissed him. This one wasn’t chaste at all. Mathieu poured into this one all the confusion and frustration and yearning that he’d kept bottled up for so long.

Wout froze up for a moment, and Mathieu felt certain that he’d fucked this all up, ruined their fragile new friendship forever. But then Wout relaxed, melted into it. His hands came up to cup the back of Mathieu’s head and neck, drawing him closer. His lips parted so that Mathieu could slide his tongue between them.

For a while, Mathieu had wondered if he was just imagining all of this, if this confusing tangle of feelings was just because Wout felt impossible, untouchable, and some terrible competitive part of Mathieu enjoyed the challenge of wanting someone he couldn’t have. That idea was well and truly obliterated. Now that Mathieu had kissed him like this once, he wanted to do it again and again, as many times as Wout would let him.

When he pulled back, just so he could admire his handiwork, Wout blinked at him, eyes wide and dark.

“Um,” Wout said. “I wasn’t expecting that.” There were still traces of confusion on his face and also a thread of caution and hesitation.

Mathieu wanted to wipe all of that away. He said, “I just– I really fucking like you.”

Wout stared at him, eyes careful and probing. Mathieu tensed under the scrutiny, but he also wanted Wout to see the truth in it. He wanted Wout to see him. Wout said, voice measured, “I know that sometimes feelings get mixed up because of what we do, and I don’t want you to–”

“It’s not that,” Mathieu scoffed. “It’s not about how Benedick feels about Beatrice. It’s about you, idiot.” Wout was talented and infuriating and way too stodgy for someone who hadn’t aged out of his twenties yet, but Mathieu still– Mathieu still liked him just as he was.

That declaration must have been more convincing, because Wout’s mouth dropped open. “Oh,” he said. Now he just seemed stunned.

Mathieu liked the way it looked on him much better than the confusion, and also, it was the perfect opportunity to kiss him again. This time, he pressed in closer, lining them up shoulder to hip. Wout’s body was a long line of heat, and his mouth was soft and wet, and he wasn’t afraid to use his teeth, which Mathieu never would have guessed, but which made his head spin anyway. If they kept this up, Mathieu would have to deal with the fact that his pants were made out of cheap polyester, but he was finding it difficult to care when he could be mashing his lips against Wout’s instead.

Of course, then Wout had to ruin it by planting his hands on Mathieu’s shoulders and pushing him away.

Mathieu made a noise that was definitely not a whimper in protest.

“Wait,” Wout said. His voice had a pleasingly breathy quality. “Why did you ask me if I was dating Jonas?”

Mathieu had no idea why he wanted to discuss this now when they could be spending the time before Mathieu had to back on stage doing much much more pleasurable things. “What? Tadej told me. He must have heard it from someone else. If you’re not dating Jonas, then what does it matter?”

“So Tadej thinks I’m dating Jonas?” Wout asked. His forehead furrowed again. It was kind of cute, but Mathieu wanted to go back to trying to taste his tonsils.

“I guess?” Mathieu said. He put on a pout that he’d been told was adorable before, but Wout didn’t seem to be swayed. A lot of people had thought Wout and Jonas were dating. He didn’t see why Tadej was so important to single out. Well, except for that massive crush and weeks-long funk he’d been in. Ah. Mathieu was beginning to see Wout’s point.

“He and Jonas had a thing,” Wout said.

“He had a crush on Jonas. That’s not a ‘thing,’” Mathieu insisted.

Wout raised his eyebrows. “They definitely had a thing. You’re going to have to tell him the truth.”

“Why me?” Mathieu whined. God, it had been bad enough dealing with Tadej’s deeply sad breakup routine. Tadej really needed to find something better to watch than that gaudy monstrosity of an adaptation. If he needed a Shakespearean romantic tragedy, Antony and Cleopatra was right there. “Wouldn’t it be better if it came from you?”

Wout rolled his eyes. “He’s not talking to me or Jonas, but he is still talking to you.”

Mathieu sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled.

Someone banged on the dressing room door. “I don’t care what you’re up to in there,” Mattias yelled, “but some of us have a costume change right now.”

Their time had come to a close, and Mathieu was disappointed, but lighter, no longer weighed down by his feelings. Wout hadn’t punched him or turned him down in some other humiliating manner. Wout had kissed him back. He leaned in to steal another kiss, but Wout stopped him, planting a hand square on his chest.

“Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed,” Wout said, quoting Beatrice’s line from their next scene together. Then he leaned in to whisper in Mathieu’s ear. “But find me after curtain, and maybe my answer will change.”

“Such an asshole,” Mathieu complained, but he didn’t resist as Wout unlocked the door and shoved him out into the hallway right past Mattias’ stupid face.

Tadej

“Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell,” Nathan said. His rage was cold and vicious in a way that made Tadej feel small and insignificant.

Tom, at Tadej’s side, bowed his head. “We will not fail,” he promised.

“Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero,” Tadej promised.

Both Don Pedro and Claudio were chastened at this point in the play, ashamed by how they’d been fooled by Don John and his henchmen. Dogberry and the watch had caught the henchmen after the fact and gotten a confession out of them, but they were too late to stop the humiliation at the wedding of Hero and Claudio. Claudio, believing Hero to be dead, begged Leonato for forgiveness, and Leonato demanded that Claudio marry his “niece” instead.

It felt horrible being Claudio in these moments, wracked by guilt over what he’d done, but Tadej could look forward to the conclusion, the neat and tidy resolution to all of this mess.

Nathan said the last line of the scene to the watch: “Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, how her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.” And then he herded the whole cadre through the sliding doors.

Between this and the final wedding scene, Tadej only had a short one where Claudio grieved at Hero’s memorial. One more scene before Tadej would have to act opposite Jonas again and pretend that all of the hurt between them was forgiven.

He wasn’t surprised to see Mathieu in the wings, waiting for his entrance in the next scene, but he was surprised when Mathieu pulled him aside, even as the lights came up again and Mattias walked out on stage alone.

Mathieu pressed up close to his ear and murmured without preamble, “Jonas isn’t dating Wout.”

Tadej barely repressed a squeak. “What?” he mouthed. His head was still in the play, mentally running through Claudio’s next monologue, and Mathieu had pulled them into the folds of the curtains.

Mathieu huffed an impatient breath. “That thing you’ve been angsting about. It’s not true. They’re not dating. They’ve never been dating.”

“Benedick!” Mattias yelled pointedly from on stage. “O Benedick! Wherefore art thou Benedick!”

“How do you–” Tadej started. His brain was struggling to catch up. This was too much too fast.

“Wout told me,” Mathieu interrupted. He helpfully omitted the “duh” at the end of that sentence. Then he rushed on stage before Mattias could stomp over and physically drag him.

Tadej could only stare after him in a confused daze before one of the stagehands shooed him away. He staggered back into the hallway. He didn’t know how to process any of this. Jonas hadn’t been cheating on Wout. Jonas wasn’t some sneaky, devious cheater who had ensnared Tadej in his web of lies. Tadej had just let the rampant rumor mill get the better of him.

It wasn’t a relief. It felt almost as bad as believing the rumor in the first place, his stomach roiling with shame and humiliation of a different kind. Would– would Jonas ever be willing to speak to him again? Maybe Tadej could revisit the idea of being Jonas’ secret admirer, wooing him with little anonymous gifts, which had been one of his earlier plans, before Jonas had been cast as Hero and the perfect opportunity to speak to him fell in Tadej’s lap. But then maybe Jonas would find out it was Tadej and throw the gifts in his face, cursing his name. No, the only way out was through.

Jonas wasn’t in the green room. Tadej wasn’t sure if he was thankful or not. He wanted — no, he needed to find Jonas, talk to him, apologize, beg him to give Tadej another chance. No such luck. He tailed behind Tom, like a puppy with his tail between his legs, toward the stage for Act V, Scene 3 without catching a single glimpse of Jonas.

This set was basically the same as the wedding set, just with a giant picture of Jonas propped on a stand and a few flowers placed underneath it. A few electric candles flickered around it. Tadej was carrying his own bouquet of flowers with him.

The lighting for this scene was muted, somber, and Tadej’s mood matched it. He launched into his monologue with a heavy heart. “Done to death by slanderous tongues was the Hero that here lies: death, in guerdon of her wrongs, gives her fame which never dies. So the life that died with shame lives in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there upon the tomb, praising her when I am dumb.” He gingerly laid the bouquet at the base of the picture stand. They had discovered it was not the most stable of stands during one of the previous rehearsals, prone to falling over if someone breathed on it incorrectly. It stayed upright this time, but Tadej feared, for one terrifying moment, that it might collapse on him. Maybe it would be better if it had. He still felt sick with guilt. He wished he could go back, tell himself not to listen to Primož, tell himself to force Jonas into a conversation about their relationship sooner. But he couldn’t do that any more than Claudio could undo all those awful things he’d said to Hero during their aborted wedding. His voice cracked as he said the last two lines, a sob breaking through as he forced out, “Now, unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I do this rite.”

Tom placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and the tears spilled from Tadej’s eyes. “Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds; and then to Leonato’s we will go.”

Tadej nodded at him. He had played Claudio as more stoic in this scene during rehearsals, so he did have any tissues with him. He’d gone through two boxes already this month. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his costume. “And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s than this for whom we render’d up this woe.” He let out an awkward sniffle at the end, but the audience remained silent until Tom led him off stage, only clapping when the lights went down again.

He found himself drying his face with a paper towel in the washroom before the makeup artist came by to fuss over him. Jonas started the next (and last) scene on stage, exiting right as Tadej entered. Tadej’s entrance was from the other side of the stage, so they wouldn’t even pass each other. There wouldn’t be enough time for Tadej to say all the things he wanted to say even if they did have a moment to talk.

It was nice to know that Claudio could be morose and desolate for this scene, too, at least until Hero revealed herself to still be alive. Tadej scrambled back to the wings as soon as his makeup was clean again, slotting right next to Tom, who looked at him with concern.

“I’m fine,” Tadej told him, even though that was blatantly a lie.

But Tom was a nice guy, and he accepted it.

Nathan was turned away from them, speaking to Jan and Mathieu, as they approached.

Tom said formally, “Good morrow to this fair assembly.”

Nathan looked them over, his previously warm and amused expression going cool at the sight of the two of them. “Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio,” he said. “We here attend you. Are you yet determined today to marry with my brother’s daughter?”

Tadej kept his back straight and proud, even though Claudio wanted to burst into tears again, and Tadej could feel the bile rise up in his throat from the nausea. “I’ll hold my mind,” he declared. He climbed onto the podium in front of Jan, taking his place there like a dutiful husband.

Nathan nodded. “Call her forth,” he announced.

The rear doors slid open, and four actors stepped in. They were dressed in the uniform of the Messina, but these ones were white. Their heads were hidden under full spaceship helmets.

“Which is the lady I must seize upon?” Tadej asked, looking at the four of them. He knew which one was Jonas, because he was the shortest, and because they’d rehearsed this scene without helmets, but Tadej thought that he would be able to recognize Jonas anywhere, just because he’d spent so much time watching him and how he moved.

Nathan offered up his arm to Jonas, and Jonas slid his hand into the crook of his elbow. “This same is she,” he said.

Tadej felt like his breath was caught in his chest. He watched as Nathan took Jonas on a long walk around their gathered cast members, since the set was crammed tight enough that there was no way to weave through the crowd without awkwardness. “Sweet, let me see your face,” he begged. Jonas’ face might not give much away, even at the best of times, but if Tadej could just catch a glimpse of it, maybe he could get a hint of what Jonas was thinking right now.

“No,” Nathan said, “that you shall not, till you take her hand before this friar and swear to marry her.”

“Give me your hand,” Tadej said. In his eagerness to touch Jonas again, he forgot that he was on the raised podium. His foot found empty air, and before he knew it, he was toppling onto the stage. That got a laugh from the audience, thinking it was intentional. Maybe it should be embarrassing, but Tadej was fucking amazing at improvisation, and he could ‘yes, and’ his way out of anything. “Before this holy friar,” he continued from his knees, “I am your husband, if you like of me.”

Jonas let go of Nathan’s arm and knelt in front of Tadej. He held out a hand, and Tadej took it. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but his heart hammered in his chest, full of something dangerously close to hope. Jonas said, “And when I lived, I was your other wife.” He stood up, pulling Tadej with him. With his other hand, he yanked his helmet off his head. His eyes were gentle, and his smile was soft. His blond hair was plastered, sweaty, against his forehead. Maybe this was just Hero’s forgiveness, but his expression had never been this kind or open in this scene before. Tadej’s heart hammered harder. Jonas continued, ” And when you loved, you were my other husband.”

Tadej swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Another Hero.”

Jonas let go of Tadej’s hand, moving it up so he could cup the back of Tadej’s neck. He gazed into Tadej’s eyes with none of the uncertainty that had plagued this scene in their last few rehearsals. “Nothing certainer,” he announced. “One Hero died defiled, but I do live … and surely as I live, I am a maid.”

He kissed Tadej then, and it was a kiss infused with all the sweetness of their best times together, as if he could wash those memories clean from the stain they had carried for Tadej for so long. Tadej kissed back hungrily, trying to convey all his sorrow and apology and hope with just this single touch.

The scene continued on without them. Tadej barely listened, since he was more interested in staring into Jonas’ lovely blue eyes instead. Jonas smiled at him, and Tadej knew it was only for him. They still needed to talk, still needed to clear the air, but hope thrummed warm and bright in Tadej’s chest. They would be able to fix this. Tadej had to believe that.

But before then, Hero and Claudio had one last, important part to play.

Mathieu and Wout were now front and center, facing off. Wout had removed his helmet as well, and it dangled in one of his hands.

Beatrice and Benedick ended the play much as they started: into one another, but not willing to admit it in front of their gathered friends and family, denying what they had already admitted to each other and the audience: that they loved each other.

It was fun to see how evenly matched Mathieu and Wout were, both in stubbornness and pride, as the dialogue ricocheted between them. They were strong enough actors to convey both their affection and attraction and their resistance to saying so out loud.

Nathan broke into the back-and-forth, putting a hand on Wout’s shoulder. “Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.”

That was Tadej’s cue, and he took it. He bounded up to them, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. His smile might look a little deranged at this point, but it was difficult to care. He loved being this version of Claudio best, the teasing and supportive friend, who could bring the audience to tears with laughter. “And I’ll be sworn upon’t that he loves her; for here’s a paper written in his hand, a halting sonnet of his own pure brain, fashion’d to Beatrice.” Mathieu took a lunge at him, trying to get the paper from his hand. This whole moment was staged, so Tadej dodged easily before he handed the paper over to Wout.

Jonas was next. His smile was smaller but sneakier, eyes shining with amusement. “And here’s another writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket, containing her affection unto Benedick.” Wout sighed, pretending not to see it when Jonas handed his paper over to Mathieu.

They unfolded the papers and mimed reading them over. Mathieu glanced at Wout. “A miracle,” he said grudgingly. “Here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.” Despite his words, he seemed eager, reaching for Wout’s shoulder, drawing them face-to-face again.

Wout smirked, radiating a smugness. “I would not deny you,” he said airily, “but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”

Mathieu rolled his eyes. “Peace! I will stop your mouth.” He pulled Wout into a passionate, showy kiss. Tadej was pretty sure he saw some tongue involved, which definitely hadn’t happened during rehearsals.

Tadej turned back to Jonas and held out his hand. Jonas took it and twined their fingers together.

Tom and Tadej had a few lines, Don Pedro and Claudio teasing Benedick after he spent a good portion of Acts I and II insisting he would never fall in love and marry.

Mathieu preened his way through them, his Benedick not bothered by the teasing in the least. He laughed and threw his free arm around Tadej’s shoulders after they were done, jubilant. “Come, come, we are friends: let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels.”

Tadej laughed, too, and they shared a smile, just between the two of them. It seemed like maybe Mathieu had gotten his own happy ending, too.

The projector cracked to life, closing the play just as it had opened it. Robert appeared on screen again. “My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight, and brought with armed men back to Messina,” he said, addressing Tom.

Mathieu was the one who responded, though. “Think not on him till tomorrow: I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers!” he announced.

The speakers launched into the Star Trek theme song, the old one from the sixties, and they were supposed to dance as the play concluded. It wasn’t a very good song for dancing, and Tadej wasn’t a good dancer anyway. But Tadej did his best, bopping his head to the beat as the lights dimmed and the curtains drew closed. Next to him, Jonas wasn’t faring much better, but he still laughed, bringing out those lines around this mouth that Tadej was so fond of.

Their eyes met again, and Tadej felt so happy he could burst from it.

The curtain call went by in a blur, as did the routine hugs and congratulations from their cast and crewmates. They changed out of their costumes, but Jonas lingered in the green room while the rest of the company trickled out to greet their friends and family. Jonas grabbed Tadej’s hand before he could follow. “I’m not dating Wout,” he said. “I never was.”

Tadej winced. He had wanted this conversation to happen, but he had also liked that bubble on stage where he could pretend everything was perfect and fine and always had been. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I just– people were talking, and you just– I couldn’t tell where I stood with you sometimes, and my insecurities got the better of me.”

Jonas took both his hands in his own. He didn’t look angry, just maybe a little sad. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I know I’m not as– as expressive as you are. But I want to be clear now. I want to date you.”

“I want to date you, too,” Tadej said. He wasn’t sure what to do next, because he wanted to jump for joy, squeeze Jonas tight in a massive hug, and plant a wet kiss on Jonas’ adorable face all at the same time, but that didn’t seem physically possible.

“Okay, let’s do that then,” Jonas agreed. He leaned in and kissed Tadej, not with the same wild passion that had marked their earlier makeout sessions, but something gentler and sweeter. It felt like a promise.

When they drew apart again, Tadej knew he had the goofiest smile on his face. He probably looked absurd, but he didn’t think Jonas minded, from the way he was smiling back. “I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but can we count our anniversary as the first time you kissed me? I don’t want to pretend like this whole thing never happened, but I–”

Jonas squeezed his hands, interrupting his train of thought. “Yes,” was all he said, but his eyes were bright with amusement.

“Good, because I really hope we make it that far, and I want to make sure you’re also okay with that before I decide anything.”

“We’ll talk about it,” Jonas promised. He pressed a kiss to the back of Tadej’s hand. He had a certainty that made Tadej feel all gooey inside. “This time, we’ll do it together.”

Jonas

Jonas was tired. He leaned back, resting his weight more fully against Tadej’s chest. Tadej wrapped an arm around Jonas’ shoulders and pulled him closer, but he continued chattering away at Nathan. Jonas had lost the thread of their conversation a while back — maybe something about yeast? — but he let the rise and fall of their voices wash over him.

The wrap party was at their usual location, a bar not too far from their theater space, which the society rented out for the night and let everyone loose on the open bar. This always had mixed results, but Jonas always treated it as a weary, relieved exhalation, a chance to let go of all the stress that had accumulated over the months.

He and Tadej were tucked into one of the booths further back, and Nathan had decided to join them. Here, they were shielded from the chaos of the karaoke machine. Some of the cast and crew were multi-talented, clearly capable of handling a musical if the society ever decided to produce one. Some of them were not.

Remco was also conspicuously absent from the party, but no one expected him to show his face after he’d made a dramatic farewell speech after the final performance, announcing that he would be leaving the company.

Wout and Mathieu had commandeered the single pool table for most of the night, some of their natural competitiveness getting the better of them as they played game after game, neither willing to concede. Jonas had no idea who had the better win record, but they’d gathered a small crowd to alternately cheer or boo them on. He had seen some money changing hands at some point, so there was probably a betting ring that had sprung up around them.

From this vantage, Jonas could see periodic scowls or grins crossing Wout’s face depending on whether he was winning or losing, but overall, he looked happy and relaxed. Jonas had been concerned when Wout had started seeing Mathieu, worried that Mathieu might push all the wrong buttons in all the wrong ways, but he was beginning to concede that wasn’t the case, at least not now. Wout was more himself around Mathieu, dry and serious and funny and always hungry for new challenges. Even though they were currently engaged in a pitched battle (with surprisingly little groping, possibly due to some level of agreed-upon sportsmanship), it was clear to everyone in the bar, just from the heated looks they shot in each other’s directions, that they would be going home together at the end of the night.

“Jonas, Tadej,” Primož said as he approached them in the booth. He’d been busy these last few performances doing stagehand work, so Jonas hadn’t seen much of him. He gave Nathan a polite nod, but it was clear this wasn’t a social call.

“Hi,” Tadej said. He sounded guarded, hesitant. Jonas had heard from Tadej that Primož was the one who had spread the rumor, which had put some strain on Tadej and Primož’s friendship. Jonas didn’t know where he stood with Primož these days, but he also hated the thought that he might be a wedge in their relationship.

“I wanted to apologize. I should know better than to repeat Mattias’ nonsense when he runs his mouth, eh? Things haven’t been great for me this year, but it made trouble for you. I’m sorry.” He looked between the two of them, seemingly sincere.

Jonas wanted to blame him or Mattias for the mess, but as much as they had contributed, his own behavior had had a hand in it, too. Pointing fingers was easy. Taking accountability for his own mistakes was harder. “Apology accepted,” he said.

Tadej was quiet a moment longer, but then he let out a laugh. “You’re forgiven. I wouldn’t want bad blood between us when I beat you out for Puck, old man.” He said it brightly, no unkindness in his voice at all.

Primož’s expression softened, but he still had that particular gleam in his eyes that said there was no way he’d let go of Midsummer’s fae trickster so easily. “I look forward to it. Better pick your auditions carefully next year. Both of you.” And with that, left the two of them in peace.

“Well,” Tadej said, drawing Jonas closer and pressing a kiss to Jonas’ hair. “I guess we can say that this was all much ado about nothing.” Jonas didn’t have to look at him to know he had a giant shit-eating grin on his face.

Nathan let out an annoyed groan.

“No? But you have to admit that all’s well that ends well.” Tadej protested with mock innocence.

Jonas elbowed him in the ribs, but he smiled up at Tadej to let him know the gesture was fond. They were still learning how best to communicate, what Tadej needed to hear from Jonas and vice versa. It was difficult at times, but even then, they were putting in the work.

“No more Shakespeare puns,” Nathan pleaded.

“Sure,” Tadej said brightly, “as you like it.”

FIN.