The Forgeries of Jealousy

Even though they were a small, amateur company, the Antwerp Queer Men’s Shakespeare Society did sometimes need understudies. It was rare enough for their actual performances, since those only took place during one weekend, but in the months beforehand, it was easy to miss a single rehearsal here or there for one reason or another. When that happened, someone else in the production would step in to keep the train moving, make sure they could still get through blocking and their lines.

Which is why it didn’t surprise Mathieu when Dylan replaced him in the role of Titania one Wednesday, because he had to miss the first half of a rehearsal due car troubles.

Dylan was a new member of the company. He had missed out on the auditions for Midsummer, so even though he was interested in acting, he was without a dedicated part and focused on building the sets with the rest of the crew. Still, he somehow managed to weasel himself into the director’s good graces and now, when someone had a doctor’s appointment or a nephew’s birthday party, he stepped in as their semi-dedicated understudy.

Mathieu wasn’t too proud to admit Dylan was halfway decent. He could deliver lines with actual feeling, remembered the blocking of half a dozen different parts, and could crack more than two facial expressions on cue. For his job, he was more than sufficient. Mathieu didn’t resent the times when he was required to act opposite Dylan as a replacement Peaseblossom or Mustardseed or even, more rarely, Puck, which he could say was a compliment compared to some of the useless wastes of space he had dealt with in the past.

But Mathieu had no reason to consider Dylan any different from the light fixtures right up until, well.

On that Wednesday, Mathieu stumbled into the youth center an hour late, already grumpy. He hated dealing with mechanics, and he didn’t like missing rehearsal. Wout had very calmly told him not to rush; they’d work around him.

So when he came in, Mathieu did not get upset when he saw that Dylan had taken his place in the scene. He had expected that part. On the other hand, he did feel like he was having an aneurysm.

The company had started blocking out the scene with Bottom relaxing in Titania’s bower, where it was implied the two of them had just had sex. A table had been placed in the middle of the staging area to represent Titania’s bed. Wout, as Bottom, was on top of it in his work polo and slacks, grinning as he commanded the various fairies to do his bidding. Mathieu enjoyed that much of it, because he liked seeing Wout’s smile. What he didn’t enjoy was Dylan with one of his long legs thrown over Wout’s hip, curled up against Wout’s side as he caressed Wout’s face and gazed at him adoringly.

Mathieu was used to being an actor and dating actors, and he understood he had no reason to be worried. He didn’t think Wout was planning to run off with Dylan anytime soon. They put themselves in plenty of odd positions for their craft or whatever. Mathieu had already spent a good portion of Hamlet with a bucket on his head during Hamlet’s whole spate of madness in the middle of the play.

Of course, understanding that on an intellectual level was much different than being smacked in the face by the sight of Dylan’s fingers tracing the column of Wout’s neck, their feet mingled together.

Mathieu thought he understood jealousy. It was an almost inevitable part of taking part in something as cutthroat as theater. He’d felt deep, burning rage when he lost out on parts and heartfelt annoyance when someone else got more applause or attention. He’d even felt the “green-eyed monster” on occasion during the drama and hookups that happened backstage, especially if one of the participants in the drama was particularly hot.

But all that had been before Mathieu got his first real boyfriend, someone Mathieu had been sleeping with for more than two months at a time and who he had something resembling soft, gooey feelings about.

It would be easy enough to write it all off because Dylan was literally taking Mathieu’s place. Mathieu was the one who had won the role of Titania. Mathieu was the sole person who should have the reward of fondling Wout on-stage as a result. His instinct was to storm in like a dramatic bitch and tear Dylan’s hands off of Wout, but he also felt rooted in place, unable to move.

He didn’t often get this vantage point on Wout. Mathieu got to see him loose and naked at home or buttoned up and respectable in public. Seeing Wout laid out and touched by someone else was scrambling all of Mathieu’s wires. He didn’t understand his own reaction — he would much rather be doing things than watching other people do things — and yet, here and now, he could almost see the appeal.

Wout’s eyes flicked in Mathieu’s direction, and his smile got bigger. Mathieu tried to smile back, but it felt a bit stiff. He was plagued by the mental image of Wout on his actual bed, clothes off, being felt up by a mysterious stranger (Dylan would do, for lack of any better options) while Mathieu watched. The thought left Mathieu with a squirmy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t have any time to consider what any of it meant, because the director caught sight of him only a few seconds after Wout did. “Ah, Mathieu,” he said. “Glad you could finally make it.” He made a broad gesture with his hands to the actors on stage. It was only through years of experience that Mathieu knew he was telling everyone to disperse; he was giving all of them a break.

The attendant faeries drifted off. Dylan said something into Wout’s ear before disentangling himself from Wout. Wout rolled his eyes and laughed. Then he hopped off the table and headed over to Mathieu, who was still lingering by the door.

“Hey,” he said. He leaned in for a quick kiss. Mathieu was still rooted in place, uncertain about how to react. Wout brushed his lips over Mathieu’s. Mathieu attempted to return the kiss, but his brain was still full of static. The sight of Dylan’s fingers tracing the line of Wout’s neck played on repeat in his mind’s eye.

“Hey,” he mumbled back.

Wout frowned. Mathieu clearly wasn’t hiding this particularly well. Wout asked, “Are you okay?” His hand remained on Mathieu’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Mathieu said too quickly. His palms were sweating, and he couldn’t even articulate why.

“Yeah, okay.” Wout did not look the slightest bit convinced. “We can talk about it after rehearsal.”

Mathieu just nodded. He wondered if he would get one of Wout’s mild-disapproval frowns or one of Wout’s you-are-being-the-biggest-dumbass-in-the-world frowns when Mathieu told him. Wout could be nice, but he could also be a judgmental asshole when he really set his mind to it. And Mathieu flipping out about stupid rehearsal shit seemed ripe for judgment.

After the break, the director moved onto the rest of the scene, where Puck and Oberon began to undo the tangled web their love potion had created. Mathieu spent the entire time trying not to get distracted by the smell of Wout’s neck and his own weird reaction to the whole…thing.

Titania and Bottom were meant to be asleep during most of the dialogue, so Wout and Mathieu were back on the table. It wasn’t comfortable in the slightest. Mathieu did his best to mimic Dylan’s position. Wout’s body was warm and familiar, and he curled an arm around Mathieu’s back.

The director focused on figuring out the blocking of Jonas and Tadej as their Oberon and Puck, respectively. It meant Mathieu had a lot of time to lay there and stew in his own thoughts. Even in Wout’s arms, he wondered how the two of them looked from the audience. He put his hand on Wout’s neck, the way Dylan had. He could feel the heat of his skin and could hear the steady in-and-out of his breath. If Mathieu hadn’t missed lunch, he would think the weird feeling in his stomach was something he ate, as his brain continued to stutter over that image of Dylan’s leg thrown over Wout’s hip.

Wout might be a little bit annoyed with Mathieu later for freaking out about the whole thing, but it would be fine. They’d work it out. Wout had forgiven Mathieu for the time Mathieu accidentally stained his favorite t-shirt blue, after all.

He was so focused on Wout, he missed his cue to wake up. Mathieu didn’t even notice until the whole room fell into a long, awkward silence. He blinked his eyes open to see a dozen expectant expressions staring at him. He internally cursed Wout. This was all his fault for looking like that when Mathieu came in. And with Dylan, of all people.

Jonas was the first one to speak. He cleared his throat and repeated, “Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.”

They hadn’t gone off book yet, so Mathieu scrambled to grab his script as he sat up. “My Oberon!” he recited. “What visions I have seen! Me thought I was enamoured of an ass.” He resisted the urge to look down at Wout’s still-prone form as he continued his pretend-sleep.

Jonas raised his eyebrows, haughty and a bit smug. Yes, that was in character for Oberon, but Mathieu thought he saw an extra tinge of judgment to it. All this acting was going to his head. Jonas pointed to Wout and said, “There lies your love.”

Mathieu turned to look at Wout now that he had permission. He’d watched Wout sleep before. He knew the slight part of his lips and the dark sweep of his lashes. Even though they’d just spent minutes cuddling together, Mathieu wanted to touch him again. He winced and tore his gaze away. It didn’t matter how pretty Wout was, he was ruining Mathieu’s rehearsal. He looked down at his script. “How come these things to pass? 0, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now.”

The director broke in before Jonas could say his next line. “Wait, run that back from Puck’s entrance. Mathieu, Titania is not supposed to be under the spell anymore.”

Tadej obediently returned to stage-right, but not before he shot Mathieu a knowing smirk. Even Wout, still pretending to be asleep, had an incriminating twitch at the corner of his mouth. Mathieu hated all of them.

Unfortunately, he had no time for revenge. Mathieu sighed and laid back down. He closed his eyes and tried to focus again on the scene.

After the end of rehearsal, Mathieu ended up back at Wout’s apartment, which was their usual modus operandi. Mathieu always had a bit of a buzz after several hours of acting, even if it was “just” rehearsal, but today there was an extra edge to it.

“So,” Wout said as he shut the front door behind Mathieu, “do you want to explain why you’re being so weird?”

Mathieu said, on instinct, “I’m not being weird.”

“Right,” Wout said, “which is why you came into rehearsal looking like someone killed your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog,” Mathieu said. He was mostly being contrary, but he had been considering getting one. He had them around growing up, and he missed them. Then he thought about adopting a dog with Wout and what that might mean for the seriousness of their relationship and felt like digging himself a hole he could hide himself in for the rest of time.

Wout let out a heavy sigh. “You do know that it’s not like that with Dylan, right?” He squinted at Mathieu, like he could maybe read Mathieu’s mind. If he could, that would certainly be something, and Mathieu would probably be fucked, and not in the good way.

“It’s not about Dylan,” Mathieu protested, before realizing that was an admission “it” was a real thing. No matter that they were kissing and dating these days or whatever, Mathieu still hated giving up any ground to Wout.

Wout gave him a look indicating that the slip up was not missed. “Okay,” he said. “Then what is it about them?”

Mathieu sulked over to the kitchen area to get himself a glass of water. He hated this part of relationships, all the talking and all the feelings. It fucking sucked. A therapist would tell him something here about maturing and growing as a person, which Mathieu was convinced was a lie invented to sell self-help books to Americans. He said, “I didn’t like it.”

Wout nodded, accepting it. He didn’t add anything else.

“But I also–” A blush crept up Mathieu’s throat. He hated it. His skin was probably blotching up horribly. “–I was — I thought it was hot.” That last part came out in a mumbled rush.

Wout didn’t react to that except a slight furrow of his brow “Is that something you’re into, then?”

“No,” Mathieu said, too quickly, then added on, “I don’t know, maybe.” It had never felt like something he should be into. Then again, he never thought dating was something he would be into either, and he was still here.

“Okay,” Wout said. He knew better than to crowd Mathieu during one of these conversations. He hung back by the kitchen table. His hands rested on one of the kitchen chairs, worrying at the back. “I just want to say if this means you’re interested in asking someone else to– I don’t think–”

Mathieu cut in. “No,” he said, and this one was far more certain. He could deal with Dylan pawing Wout when it was for rehearsal purposes, but the thought of it happening as part of their sex life made his stomach turn, and not in a fun, roller coaster sort of way.

Wout nodded. “Good, okay, because that was something– I don’t think I could go along with it.” He let out a heavy sigh. Mathieu couldn’t tell if it was in annoyance or relief. Maybe it was both. Wout could be weird like that. Wout continued, “But you liked watching it, right? That– that I can do.”

Mathieu would joke about Wout’s latent exhibitionist streak, but he was also a theater actor. The hypocrisy was too much, even for him. He took a deep breath and sipped at his glass of water. “Yeah, I liked it.” It was easier to admit it once it was all out in the open. He’d liked seeing Wout on the table, splayed out and offered up for Mathieu’s hungry gaze.

Wout raised his eyebrows. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “So, do you want to do something about it?”

Mathieu kissed Wout as soon as they were in the bedroom. He always liked kissing Wout, and his skin felt like it had been put on too tight right now. He needed a good method for getting some of that nervy energy out.

Wout pushed Mathieu towards the corner, where there was a single chair covered in discarded clothes. One thing that had surprised Mathieu when they first started dating was Wout’s casual messiness. He projected an air of being mature and put-together in public, but in private, half the time he had no idea where anything in his house was.

Mathieu shoved the spare clothes onto the ground and plopped himself into the chair. Wout sat down on the bed facing him. It felt a little silly. Without the context of the youth center and their rehearsal time, Mathieu had no idea why he wasn’t on the bed as well. If he was, he could push Wout down onto his unkempt sheets, peel off Wout’s pants, put his mouth on Wout’s dick.

Wout didn’t seem to be in a rush. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was his usual ritual for getting into character. Mathieu had watched him go through it many times before. The familiar sight of it helped Mathieu relax. Yes, this too was a performance. They were just acting. Mathieu knew how to do that.

When Wout opened his eyes, he said, “Well met by moonlight, proud Titania.”

“Oh, are you Oberon tonight?” Mathieu asked. Wout had switched out “well” for “ill” in the original line. “I haven’t foresworn your bed and company.” When Oberon and Titania spoke these lines in the play, they were at odds, in competition, which led to Titania being magically charmed into falling in love with Bottom and taking him to bed.

Wout just smiled, slow and sly, and recited, “Let me play the lion, too.” He undid the buttons of his shirt. He wasn’t making it a striptease; his movements weren’t any different from normal. And yet, this setup was so different from usual, Mathieu couldn’t stop staring at the movement of Wout’s hands. In the scene Wout was quoting, Bottom was being a parody of the overeager, overbearing actor, demanding to play all the parts. Wout wasn’t speaking with that same jolly tone he used for Bottom. He was saying it with all the solemnity of a soliloquy. “I will roar, that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me,” He slid off his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. Wout’s upper body wasn’t anything to write home about, especially compared to some of the gym rats Mathieu had fucked before. Wout was pale and narrow and soft around the edges. Mathieu still wanted to put his mouth on Wout’s pecs with an intensity that made him feel sick.

Mathieu snorted. He tried to remember the responding line. “You can play no part but Pyramus,” he said. He couldn’t remember how the rest of it went. “You’re the one best suited to it or whatever,” he added in Dutch. Titania wasn’t in that scene anyway. He didn’t have to have any of it memorized.

Wout let out a soft laugh. His whole face crinkled up. His hands went to the zipper of his fly. “What does my queen wish of me?” He asked. He looked at Mathieu from beneath his lashes. They were going off script now. Neither Oberon nor Bottom were so deferential to Titania.

Mathieu had expected this to be weird. Maybe also sexy and intense, but also just, kinda weird. In reality, it was also an extension of the push and pull between them, whether on stage or off. It was fun in a way he hadn’t realized it could be. “Take them off.” he declared with Titania’s imperious tone.

Wout obliged. He was just as perfunctory about it as he was with his shirt. Mathieu’s palms still started to sweat. He rubbed them on the fabric of his pants.

“Lie down,” he instructed.

Wout said, “As my queen commands,” and did so. Wout had long legs, and they looked longer stretched out on the bed. He still wore his boxers. They were beginning to tent at the front. Wout wasn’t as unaffected as he was pretending to be. The pose was similar enough to his positioning on the table earlier, minus Dylan and a layer of clothing. This time, Mathieu had a chance to look his fill.

Wout’s hands rested on the bed, palms down, long fingers slightly curled. His knees looked knobbly from this angle. His eyes weren’t closed, but they were downcast, maybe a little submissive. He wasn’t Oberon or Bottom, right now, Mathieu decided. He was a faerie in Titania’s court. As impish and tricky as any of them.

“Show me,” Mathieu commanded next. Titania didn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed of her desires. She asked for what she wanted, and her attendants gave it to her. “I want to see it.”

Wout’s gaze slid over to Mathieu from the corner of his eyes. He yanked down the waistband of his boxers just enough to free his cock.

“Pretty.” Mathieu told him, and he didn’t think he was imagining the pink flush dusting Wout’s cheeks. “Touch yourself.” He wanted, no, needed to see it. And Wout, his willing subject here, would obey.

Wout was a performer through and through. He had his hips tilted up, so they were angled towards Mathieu. He’d licked his lips until they were shiny and red. His arms were positioned such that they didn’t block Mathieu’s view. It was one of the first things drilled into their heads as young theater actors: always know where your audience is. Wout gripped his cock. He let his head fall back. He was one long, beautiful line from head to toe.

Wout let out tiny, gasping breaths as he stroked himself. He wasn’t the loudest person in bed that Mathieu had ever slept with, but he liked to make these small noises: groans and whimpers and grunts. He was so gorgeous Mathieu had a headache from how turned on he was. He almost never got to see the curl of Wout’s toes and the bob of his throat at the same time. And Wout being so pliant and so accommodating was just the cherry on top.

Saliva collected in Mathieu’s mouth. He swallowed and said, “I want to see you finger yourself.” The ache in his cock was becoming unbearable. He undid his fly, so he could reach into his own underwear and palm himself, just to give himself a little bit of relief.

Wout kicked off his boxers, leaving himself entirely bare, before turning his head fully in Mathieu’s direction, meeting Mathieu’s stare full-on. Then he slid one finger, two, into his mouth. The sight of his full lips wrapped around his long fingers was obscene enough to get him banned from several European countries. Mathieu squeezed his cock, gave it a few rough strokes. This was better than any porn had ever seen. He almost wanted to ask if he could film it for posterity later, but a video couldn’t capture the heavy scent of sex, the electricity in the air. Television and movies could never fully kill live theater.

Without breaking eye contact, Wout pulled his fingers from his mouth and reached between his legs. Mathieu didn’t have a good view of the fingers going in, but he could tell when it happened by the sigh Wout let out. Wout’s eyes fluttered closed, and Mathieu couldn’t stop himself, he shoved his pants and boxers down so that he could jerk himself off properly.

Wout fingered himself lazily, like he wasn’t feeling any of the desperation that was singing through Mathieu’s blood. The quickening of his breath still gave him away. Mathieu realized this might be how Wout was when he was by himself, and the head rush made his vision go funny at the edges.

“What do you think about when you do this?” he asked. Wout’s movements were confident and practiced, and here, in Wout’s bedroom, with Wout on his bed, Mathieu could all too easily imagine Wout like this alone. He wanted– he wanted to be able to imagine it more completely.

Wout blinked his eyes open. His breath was heavy, rising and falling in his chest. He wasn’t playing a part any longer. Neither was Mathieu. They were both too far gone for pretenses now. “You,” he said, his voice thick and raspy.

The thought of Wout touching himself to the thought of him was too much. Wout was watching him was watching Wout. It was a circuit, a loop completing. Mathieu came into his fist. Semen dripped over his fingers. He barely noticed, because Wout threw his head back, gripped his cock, and let out a deep moan.

After Mathieu felt like he could see straight again, he climbed onto the bed. Wout’s movements had taken on a frantic, desperate edge. Wout was nearing the edge himself.

He smirked up at Mathieu as Mathieu straddled his legs, though any sharpness to the expression ended up softened under the arousal. “Didn’t you just want to watch?” he asked.

Mathieu snorted. “I am a spirit of no common rate,” he said, sliding back into character. “The summer still doth tend upon my state.” He ran his hands up the length of Wout’s arms.

Wout let out a soft laugh. “Okay, and what is the queen of the faeries going to do about it?” Despite his bravado, he still arched into Mathieu’s touch.

“Tie up my love’s tongue,” Mathieu replied. He kissed Wout then and reached between them. His hand joined Wout’s on Wout’s cock. “Bring him silently.”

Mathieu wasn’t in any rush, but Wout was. Wout bucked into Mathieu’s hand and whined against Mathieu’s lips. As beautiful as it had been to watch, the heat of Wout’s skin and the taste of his mouth had their own pleasures.

Wout’s orgasm stole over him after Mathieu sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. He shook underneath Mathieu, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open in a wordless moan. Mathieu drank the sights and the sounds of it in, like any other incredible performance he wanted to commit to memory.

Later, after they’d cleaned up and gotten ready for bed, Mathieu said, “Okay, I liked that more than I thought I would.” Maybe it was the afterglow talking, but it felt easier to admit that now. He considered sending Dylan a fruit basket, but that would just get the rumor mill going, and Dylan had definitely noticed something was up today.

Wout smiled, not unkindly, and kissed Mathieu’s cheek. He liked to do that, give these little gestures of affection. Mathieu wasn’t used to it, and it left a funny feeling in his chest every time. Wout said, “I could tell. I know you weren’t expecting it.” He switched back into English to recite more lines from the play, “And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.”

Mathieu rolled his eyes at the quote, but he still said Titania’s response, “Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.” He made sure to say it as sarcastically as possible, and then shut Wout up again with a kiss.