Title: Pawn their experience (Reference) (12,000 words) Fandom: Slings & Arrows (begins 15 years before the show, no spoilers) Summary: Due to a childhood spent in eight different cities and a career in which being on tour equated naturally with getting paid, Geoffrey's proprietary interest in his living space was approximately equal to the average fruit fly's sense of maternal pride. Rating: Adult Pairing: Predominantly Geoffrey/Oliver, Geoffrey/OFC, Geoffrey/Ellen Notes: Thanks to Carla, Jack, and Adri for hand-holding, and to Epigone, Sage, and Jam for beta-reading. Due to a childhood spent in eight different cities and a career in which being on tour equated naturally with getting paid, Geoffrey's proprietary interest in his living space was approximately equal to the average fruit fly's sense of maternal pride. He didn't have the drive to find himself a place to live, and the theatre staff had thrown him in with the young company. The shared house meant less to him than his current pair of socks, and most of its inhabitants were not significantly dearer. So, when Suzanne gave him back his signed copy of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and started fucking Bradford instead, leaving Geoffrey entirely unwilling to be in the apartment while they went at it -- essentially every moment that they weren't actively rehearsing -- he packed his bag. He'd been in Vancouver for two years already, and he was aware that most people in that situation would have bags plural, but the ability to walk away from the reenactment of the Kama Sutra, coming soon to a living room near you, was much more valuable than the playbill from Romeo and Juliet. Anybody who cared that he'd been Romeo on the main stage already knew it, and if he'd spent the time trying to figure out where to pack it, Suzanne might have started braying again before he got out the door. The repellent quality of her ecstatic symphony was something that hadn't quite occurred to him when he was causing it, but now that he recognized how aggravating she was, he counted the loss of her affection as a blessing. Her antics left him in the lobby of the theatre well before anyone with a vague ambition to sleep would arrive at rehearsal. When someone clapped him on the shoulder, he startled and nearly dropped all of his worldly possessions. "I hesitate to wish people good morning until at least noon," Oliver said, "and in your state, doubly so, though rumpled is a good look for you. Don't tell me you've come to resign, dear boy; you'd break an old man's heart." "No, not that," Geoffrey said, swinging his knapsack onto the ground. "I'm more like an airy spirit, suddenly treeless." Oliver raised his eyebrows. "Are you behind on your rent? We're only a month into the season." Suzanne owed hers already, but that wasn't the point. "No, I'm avoiding watching Cirque du Lit -- et Divan, et Cuisine when they got a little too excited." Oliver wrinkled his nose. "Ah, young love. Have you found another place to hang your hat yet?" "Not yet. God knows I could find space in a hotel -- until we open -- but it would be expensive." Geoffrey hated sounding directionless in front of Oliver, but it wouldn't help to lie. Oliver frowned. "And your friends --" "-- are lost in each other's -- eyes." Oliver shook his head, frowning. "I don't mind having my actors starving -- it adds urgency to the work -- but while you're sharing a dressing room, homelessness is beyond the pale." Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair, regretting that he'd admitted his confusion. "I'll find a place soon. I haven't even checked the paper yet." Oliver pursed his lips briefly, then picked up Geoffrey's knapsack. When Geoffrey opened his mouth to protest, Oliver held up a hand. "I have a perfectly comfortable couch, and you need to wash up before rehearsal or the lady in question will think you're pining away with love for her." "I'd rather cuddle an asp." Geoffrey shook his head. "But I can't impose on you." Oliver had already done so much for him, unasked. "It's not an imposition." Oliver started backing toward the door. "You didn't ask; I offered. And you do need to go somewhere for the sake of your fellow thespians, if nothing else." "You must have had something better to do here," Geoffrey protested, following him entirely against his will. If Oliver hadn't taken all his clothing, he would have done something else. "Better than taking you home with me?" Oliver gave him a music-hall broad wink. "Besides, I was going to work on the blocking for Caesar's speech in one-four to give John something to do with his hands other than look like he's molesting you in absentia." "That might be the image he's bringing to the scene, but I'm not going to ask." Geoffrey followed him out of the theatre and down the street; Oliver had eschewed car ownership, and everyone generally felt that that was a good choice on his part. "I can carry my own bag," he offered. If Oliver gave it to him, Geoffrey would have another chance to argue him out of this overly generous offer. "I'd bear your fardels anytime," Oliver said, waving away his outstretched hand. "John's speech." "It'd be better if he kept the subtext going through our scene together in the second act. Otherwise he gets over Antony's charisma far too quickly." "Implausibly so, yes." Oliver nodded. "We'll work on it." "And --" Geoffrey hesitated a moment, gauging Oliver's mood, but he was apparently feeling expansive. "And then there's Cleo and Alexas." "Oh?" Oliver's smile was edged, but there. "What's bothering you about them?" "She's not talking to him half the time. Hell, three-quarters." Oliver nodded. "He's having trouble." "She's not even there with him." Geoffrey shook his head. They weren't dragging him down, but the production was suffering, which justified his complaints -- and Oliver would surely call him on anything that was none of his business. "True enough. I'll get them to try it staring into each other's eyes. That'll remind them that they're not all alone out there." Geoffrey bit his lip and tried not to remember doing something similar in excruciating detail. He was sure it would make him blush if he thought about it, and he didn't feel up to explaining it to Oliver. "That's -- an interesting exercise." "When I had Fred and Hannah try it two seasons ago, it took them a minute and a half to start kissing -- and given that she was his Regan, that wasn't quite what I needed from them." "Well, and the time I tried it, we dueled three hours later." That much, at least, was safe. "Ah," Oliver said. "Your Mr. Nichols, that was?" "He's not my Mr. Nichols, but yes. If the stage manager hadn't pulled us apart, we could've kept the rapiers out of it, at least." Geoffrey shrugged and ignored the question in Oliver's expression, as well as his memory of how Darren had looked at the time. "If you're going to make them have a staring contest, I'll be on my guard." "Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still," Oliver said, and unlocked the door of his apartment. The building was shabby on the outside and rather small; Oliver's apartment was on the ground floor and shared a porch with the neighbors. Inside, every inch of wall space that was neither a window nor a bookshelf had a poster on it from a production, some framed, some signed, some faded. Every horizontal surface had some kind of paper on it: books, notes, and sketches flooded everything, most with a light patina of dust. Oliver picked up three notebooks and a copy of Antony and Cleopatra from the couch, then gestured at it with them. "I'll find you a pillow," he offered, "unless you'd rather use the play for symbolic purposes." "I've got two copies," Geoffrey said. "Only two?" Oliver set his books on an already cluttered end table and Geoffrey's bag on the couch. "That would explain why I can lift this thing." "Suzanne believes strongly that one copy of anything is enough." Oliver waved a hand. "She'll grow out of it, or she'll be a hack forever. I start a new production with a new copy, myself. It helps with the illusion of freshness." Geoffrey frowned at him and leaped to his defense, vaguely aware that he might be fishing for a compliment. "It's not an illusion this time. I saw your last Cleopatra, and we're not doing that one again." "All the credit for that goes at your feet," Oliver said, and swept a ridiculous bow at him. "Does the couch look sufficient?" "If you don't mind having me," Geoffrey said, spreading his hands. "It's the best offer I've had all day." He conveniently ignored that it was only nine in the morning; fortunately, so did Oliver. "Likewise, darling. Shall we head back?" Oliver stood and gestured toward the door. "Fine, but I'm not the only thing that makes this production significantly different." "Your Antony is nothing like Henry's." Oliver's smile was the one John described as "Zeus looking for an excuse to become a golden shower," which probably had more to do with John's tastes than Oliver's. "He put more faith in Cicero's veracity than you do." "The libel?" Geoffrey laughed. "Henry would." "Henry's Antony had chemistry with the flats and fucked anyone -- or anything -- that held still long enough." Oliver locked the door behind them and smiled wryly at Geoffrey. "Whereas yours is more a hero than a libertine." "I could waggle my eyebrows more if you wanted," Geoffrey offered, demonstrating, though it made him feel ridiculous to do it. "Crotch-grabbing was more that Antony's métier and -- well, I wouldn't flash the lights if you went there, but I'm enjoying your take on him. I can always count on you to surprise me." Oliver winked at him. Geoffrey blushed and looked away from him. Yet another stage memory he could do without dredging up while he was in public. "Someday you'll drop that." "Drop it? Never." Oliver patted Geoffrey's shoulder; the gesture was somewhere between comforting and encouraging. "That kiss was one of your brilliant moments. The look on Scroop's face, confronted with all the Harry he ever secretly wanted --" Geoffrey held up his hands to stop Oliver's words and to hide his own blush. "I'm trying to forget it, all right?" "You were just lucky that Desmond is not only a consummate actor, but straight as an arrow. If you'd sprung that on anyone else, the whole show would have gone off the rails and we'd have had a thoroughly different tale." "It seemed like a good idea at the time." Geoffrey crossed his arms over his chest and walked faster. It didn't stop Oliver from being right, or right there. Oliver kept pace with him, laughing. "It was fucking brilliant, and you know it. But you mustn't rest on your laurels, Geoffrey; back to Egypt we go." Egypt, as of the latest set design, was the same in most particulars as Rome, except that the draperies on the columns were golden instead of white. Cleopatra's throne was a repainted prop from Richard III, some years before, redone in enough gilt to embarrass Liberace. Cleopatra and Alexas, plain in their street clothes, managed all of a page with their eyes locked on each other's before they ended up sprawled over the throne, kissing like they'd just invented the practice. Janet the stage manager leapt to her feet and said, "Somebody get the bucket of water." Geoffrey was too busy laughing to keep his earlier promise to Oliver; Cleo had said, "I'm going to fucking kill him," not five minutes before. "Break it up, you two, or get a room," Oliver said, and eventually they let each other go, looking pink and distracted. "Sorry," said John, whose Alexas had never been so awake. "I'd call for a break, but I don't want to think of what horrible things you would do in the interim." Oliver gestured at them. "Keep going." It was much better when they did, though the passion didn't spill over into their scenes with other characters as much as Oliver wanted it to -- or as much as Geoffrey thought would be reasonable. Cleopatra wasn't quite as in love with Antony as he wanted her to be, soon enough, to justify all the nonsense or the tragedy. He was going to tell her that during a break, if he got a chance, but there weren't any breaks until lunch, and John got to her first and they were halfway out the door before Geoffrey could so much as remember her actual name. "They're coming along," Oliver said, and Geoffrey nodded. "About time." Oliver raised his eyebrows, smiling faintly. "You're getting grumpy. Let me take you to lunch." "Bed and board?" Geoffrey shook his head. "That's going a bit far." "Not at all." Oliver started up the aisle and Geoffrey had to jump off the stage to keep up properly. "Think of it as the grand generous gesture of someone who makes three times what you do, darling." "I didn't see 'serf' listed in my contract," Geoffrey said, rolling his eyes and letting Oliver usher him out with a hand on his shoulder. "'Actor,' yes, but you're not my liege lord, responsible for my well-being." "Must I be your liege to concern myself with your welfare?" Oliver squeezed his shoulder. "I thought of it as a friendly gesture." "Trina --" Geoffrey paused while Oliver winced at her name. "Trina used to hold forth whenever she got drunk --" "Midrehearsal, yes --" "-- about how no director is ever an actor's friend, or anyone's friend as long as it's someone involved in the theatre." Oliver waved his hand in a mockery of Trina's declamatory style. "Actors are directors' Barbie dolls -- Ken dolls in your case, Geoff love -- stripped naked, posed funny, and forgotten. Stage managers are directors' abused livers, doing all the hard work for no love. Techies are slaves, to be whipped into shape whenever necessary." "And other directors," Geoffrey added with a toss of his head that had set Trina's blonde curls bouncing when she did it, but which merely made his own shaggy hair flop slightly, "they're like lions on the prowl, waiting to kill off your young to make sure their own genes survive." "She was a terrible actress, but she got that right." Oliver ducked into the café next door to the theatre and Geoffrey followed perforce. "Bastards, poseurs, and pretentious hacks, the lot of them." Geoffrey noticed Suzanne and Bradford a few tables away from the door and took a seat in a booth where he could keep an eye on them if necessary. He nodded solemnly at Oliver. "While you're buying me lunch, your directorial vision is by far the most inspiring one I have ever experienced." "Just during lunch? I'm throwing your toothbrush out when we get home." Suzanne's eyes widened like a freshman practicing surprise in the mirror. It was such a false expression that Geoffrey decided that anything that kept her attention off of making out with Bradford in public was not only a civic duty, but also worth whatever damage to his reputation he might possibly sustain. He clutched at Oliver's hand like Helena spurned. "You're tired of me already?" Oliver kissed the back of his hand in fine courtly fashion. "Never, darling. At least -- not while you acknowledge the brilliance of my artistry." Geoffrey fluttered his eyelashes and Oliver kicked him under the table, whispering, "Don't overplay it." Suzanne was already murmuring to Bradford, "Do you think they're --" in a stage whisper they could have heard three doors down. "I know who's in charge around here," Geoffrey said, and Oliver rolled his eyes. They were saved from the necessity to escalate the carryings-on further at that point by the waiter's arrival. Once they'd decided on lunch, Oliver leaned across the table and said, "Should we stage a breakup next?" Geoffrey shrugged. "The blocking is wrong for that -- and so's the business. You kissed my hand and I didn't slap you. It doesn't flow." He flipped his fork over on his napkin and raised his voice slightly. "Besides, I'm coming home with you tonight, aren't I?" Bradford choked on his water. Suzanne said, "Oh my god," and thumped him hard on the back. Oliver nodded. His smile might have given the game away if their audience had been less distracted. "I was planning on it." "The babbling gossip of the air can go to hell," Geoffrey said, and grinned at him. After that, neither of them had any reason to be surprised when the apprentices giggled during Oliver's notes, nor by the way Suzanne and Bradford avoided looking at Geoffrey save when they absolutely had to speak a line to him. The first incident that took Geoffrey aback at all was when Ed cornered him in the hall after rehearsal and said, "So, you're fucking Oliver?" "Ah," Geoffrey said, unwilling to lie outright, but less willing to let on that it was a ruse. "Who told you?" "Bradford. Thinks you're going to get the gay plague next." Ed rolled his eyes. "How is he in bed?" "Bradford? Ask Suzanne." Geoffrey asked, stalling for time. Ed laughed. "No." "Oliver -- is bossy." Never mind that he didn't know that from the kind of experience Ed meant; it was definitely true. "Good bossy or just -- bossy?" Geoffrey chuckled. "Oh, you know how Oliver is. Half the time he's insightful, brilliant even, and then he gets lazy." Ed waggled his eyebrows and Geoffrey resolved never to use that expression onstage unless he was playing the clown. Antony, crotchgrabbing or no, was no clown. "Well," Ed said, "call me when you get bored." Geoffrey spread his hands. "You just want me to tick him off so Bradford can go on for me." "Nah, he's lousy with subtext. Seeing him in Antony's armor isn't worth the pain." Ed thumped Geoffrey on the shoulder. "But the offer stands." "I'll keep that in mind, thanks." Geoffrey waved and headed for Oliver's office. The door was open, so he leaned on the frame and tapped gently. "Do you have a lot to do?" Oliver looked up from a notebook. "I can bring it with me. You're not going out tonight?" "I'd rather let the rumors brew a while first." Geoffrey ran a hand through his hair. "If I'm there, they won't have anything to talk about -- except for the ones who want to hear about our sex life." "I'll have you know I'm a tiger in bed," Oliver said. He stood and picked up his coat. "A veritable lion, even." He gestured toward the hall and locked his office. "Take it up with Ed -- I told him you're bossy." Oliver put his hand on his chest and affected an innocent expression. "I only want you to achieve your full potential." Geoffrey laughed. "I bet you say that to all the boys." "I haven't said it to Ed, yet. He's not really my type." "You have a type?" Geoffrey sighed gustily, playing this new role for Oliver's benefit. "All our years together and I'm still learning things about you." "I'm quite sure everyone has a type," Oliver said. "Some people simply define the concept more broadly than others." Geoffrey raised his eyebrows and ignored the fact that he could hear Suzanne behind them as they walked onto the street. "So -- what exactly is your type, Oliver?" Oliver looked straight at him with an apparently sincere expression for the first time since the rehearsal ended. "Gorgeous idiots. Give me someone who can't learn to tie his own shoes, think and talk at the same time, or deliver a soliloquy, and I'll be happy for the rest of my days, as long as he's desperately handsome." "Ah." Geoffrey held the door for him. "I burned spaghetti once." "And you can't dress yourself worth shit. Your shoes are fine, though, and you're -- well --" Oliver shook his head slightly. "You're a passable actor, under the right circumstances." Geoffrey had proof that Oliver actually considered him the sort of actor whom a director might call when, for example, he got a job in Vancouver and said actor was doing rep in Hamilton. "Come to B. C.," Oliver had said, drunk with glee and whisky at what had been some truly horrible hour with the time difference. "They want to keep me for at least a year, they said, and I need someone I can depend on. Play Prince Hal for me." Geoffrey had said yes before he remembered that he had a contract, and when he woke up again, he'd had to call the theatre in Vancouver to make sure it hadn't been a wistful dream, or Oliver making things up while in his cups. When he considered how Oliver had sounded that night, it seemed as though it had taken them far too long to get to the point of flirting even as flippantly as they currently were. He snapped his fingers. "I guess we're not fated to be together long, then." "It's been fun while it lasted," Oliver said lightly, and opened his apartment door. "I'll just grab my bag," Geoffrey offered, following him in. Oliver paused. "You are still welcome here, you know." "I gathered that." The solemnity of Oliver's tone caught him off his guard. "The only offer I got was from Ed, and you know, I don't think he really wanted to be long-term roommates, exactly." For a moment, Oliver looked too relieved for Geoffrey to credit his expression. "Not that a couch is any great shakes, but I was enjoying the thought of -- company. For a bit. Dinner, at least." "I wasn't kidding about the time I burned spaghetti, but I'm all right with a knife, if you need anything chopped." Geoffrey glanced toward the kitchen. Oliver touched his shoulder. "Before that --" He hesitated for an uncharacteristically long time. Geoffrey frowned. "What, is my stance off?" "I didn't offer you a place to sleep with any -- expectations," Oliver said, giving him a searching look. "No, I -- didn't think you did." Geoffrey smiled at him, not out of relief -- he hadn't wondered -- but as reassurance. "Whatever you think is fair rent, honestly --" Oliver held up his hand. "No, you're missing the point -- the motivation, as it were." He gestured to the couch. "That is all yours if you want it -- free of charge, no less -- and I'm not going to -- impugn your virtue. Which is not to say I don't have designs upon it." "Ah, that." Geoffrey grinned, willing himself not to act embarrassed. "I got that -- oh, just about the first time you bought me a drink for no apparent reason." Oliver shrugged, looking away from him. "Subtlety serves no purpose in these matters." He glanced at the couch again. "Just promise me you're not using this whole --" he waved a hand "--flirtation to seduce the fair Suzanne back to your side." Geoffrey grimaced. "I'm over her." "And not a moment too soon." Oliver smiled -- pretended to smile, more like; the corners of his eyes were tense. "I believe I need a drink." He went into the kitchen. After a brief period of consideration, Geoffrey followed him. Oliver looked up from his snifter and asked, "Can I tempt you to anything?" "Is this another attempt to seduce me?" Geoffrey asked, keeping his voice light. If the answer was no -- Oliver coughed on a sip of brandy and set the snifter down, then wiped his eyes several more times than he could possibly have needed to. "Do you want it to be?" Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair and avoided looking at Oliver until he was certain who might be rejecting whom. "Not -- like that." "Like what, exactly?" It took a certain amount of discipline and awareness of how little he wanted to play the innocent for Geoffrey to meet Oliver's eyes. "If we're going to -- have sex, I don't want to be drunk. That would be too easy." Oliver hesitated before he responded. He watched Geoffrey's face until it began to be uncomfortable; it was impossible to give him what he wanted without knowing what that was. Oliver's voice was softer than usual when he asked, "And -- are we?" Geoffrey could feel himself blushing at the scrutiny and the question. He ducked his head, not that that would help, but it made him feel slightly less exposed. "It could be fun." "You wound my pride," Oliver said dryly. "I'd hoped you had more faith in me than that." "I haven't exactly been asking around." Geoffrey cleared his throat. "You still want --" "Yes," Oliver said, before he could finish the sentence. Geoffrey nodded, took a deep breath, and looked at him. "Well." Oliver gestured for him to keep going. "Well?" "Maybe I shouldn't have turned down the drink." "Don't make me play the porter," Oliver chided him, turning away to put the brandy in a cabinet. "I won't have you swooning about drunk and then maligning my abilities because you were too hammered to get the job done." "I wouldn't be. Just --" Geoffrey shrugged. "I'm not sure it will be my best performance." "Think of it as a preview," Oliver suggested. It was a relief to have Oliver take him up on the banter; banter was much easier than any other sort of conversation they might be having. "For what?" "The time after that, I suppose." Oliver waved a hand. "Unless it flops." Geoffrey laughed and hoped he wasn't blushing again. "God, I hope that's not a problem." "A bad dress rehearsal --" Oliver said, holding up one finger as if he'd suddenly become a washed-up professor. Geoffrey kissed him midsentence as much to forestall the cliché as because it seemed like good timing. Oliver ran his fingers through Geoffrey's hair and kissed him back, hard and -- desperate. "It's not a rehearsal," Geoffrey said. "No," Oliver agreed, and kissed him again, more gently, until Geoffrey was nearly out of breath. "But the critics are hardly watching." Geoffrey bit his lower lip, then bit Oliver's, more lightly. Oliver groaned and got a better grip on his shoulders. "You're my harshest critic," Geoffrey said when he could get a word in edgewise. "I'll save the notes for later -- except --" Oliver kissed his cheek firmly, then let him go with a clearly conscious effort. "The kitchen is not the right setting for this assignation." Geoffrey licked his bottom lip and tilted his head to one side, grandstanding for the sheer everloving hell of it. "It fits the impetuousness of this -- tryst." "This isn't impetuous." Oliver pointed imperiously toward the hall. "I have the blocking all worked out." "Beds are passé for sex scenes," Geoffrey complained. Oliver shook his head. "The trick is to give the audience a setting they expect and then transcend it. Come on, Geoff," he said, in a far more petulant tone. "Are you having some sort of belated gay panic?" "No," Geoffrey said, and went into the hall. "I'm just not thrilled about the concept of walking into such a stilted production." "Stilted!" Oliver sounded outraged, but he couldn't stifle his smile enough for it to be plausible. "Absolutely. I need give and take in the creative process." Geoffrey spread his hands. Oliver took one and kissed him again, long enough this time that Geoffrey began to doubt just how much longer he could draw this out. When he could, he added, "I know what my motivation is, and I can work with that, but I can't see the production if I have no freedom of movement." Oliver opened one of the doors along the hall and pulled Geoffrey into a tiny bedroom -- or really, a bedroom made small by the fact that three-quarters of it was taken up by a bed. "I wasn't envisioning bondage," he said, tucking his hands under the edge of Geoffrey's shirt. "Not this time, at any rate." "But you wanted a strict progression of scenes -- every beat in the appropriate moment." Geoffrey peeled his shirt off and dropped it somewhere on the floor, then started on Oliver's buttons. "That won't work as improv." "As long as we hit upon the unifying theme -- god, take off your damned shoes already -- I'll feel as though my --" Oliver took off his undershirt "-- artistic vision has been satisfied." Geoffrey caught Oliver's hand when he reached for Geoffrey's fly. "What's your artistic vision?" Oliver looked at Geoffrey's hand on his wrist and raised his eyebrows. "It started with two naked men and at least a couple of orgasms." "Oh, please, that's not a theme, that's an opening tableau." "Passion, then." Oliver kissed him again, pressing their hands between their chests. "Possibly enacted in fucking mime if you're going to babble like this all night." "Fucking mime," Geoffrey repeated, emphasizing the first word with a grin. "It would have to be that." Oliver twisted his hand free and gave Geoffrey a firm shove backward onto the bed, following him down for another kiss -- two, three, four -- several kisses. "Do you give all your directors this much shit?" He unfastened Geoffrey's pants. "Lift your hips." "I've never slept with one of my directors before -- though with moves like that," he added, as his pants and underwear hit the floor, "I'm surprised they don't make you Head Dresser." Oliver kissed his neck, then his breastbone. "You'd hardly have to," he said, running his thumb, then his tongue, over the curve of Geoffrey's hip. Geoffrey shivered so hard he barely heard Oliver add, "You deserved all of your parts." The perfect synchrony of Geoffrey's embarrassed "Thanks" with Oliver taking Geoffrey's cock in his mouth was entirely too reminiscent of Oliver's claims to planning -- enough that he laughed, for all it caught on a gasp. Oliver looked up at him. "Are you all right?" Geoffrey waved his hand. "Fine, just -- I admit it, that was perfect." "What was?" Oliver frowned. "Is that what girls call a blowjob these days?" "Not the ones I've dated. It was just -- it generally makes me feel incredibly fucking grateful, but not until it's over." He propped himself up on his elbows. "See, we're getting the beats wrong already." Oliver shook his head slightly. "Whose fault is that?" He squeezed Geoffrey's thigh. "Are you going to stop me again?" "The check, as they say, is in the mail." Oliver groaned. "You're making me rethink the bondage set design." Geoffrey managed what he felt was a thoroughly plausible shudder. "I'll stop critiquing your work, I promise." "The hell you will." Oliver patted his thigh. "You're useless in a vacuum." "The blowjob was your idea -- oh -- but --" Geoffrey bit his lip as Oliver started again. "It's a good idea," he admitted. "I can -- work with that." Oliver snorted and did something with his tongue that made Geoffrey's eyes cross. "Really -- I --" he clenched one hand in the bedspread. "You're going to fuck up the beats again." Oliver hummed -- clearly a question, and one that made Geoffrey shiver harder. "God," Geoffrey said, "I'm -- better at pace than this, but --" Oliver apparently took this as encouragement rather than the warning Geoffrey meant it as. It was practically impossible to tell whether Oliver was embarrassingly good at what he was doing -- probable -- or Geoffrey was embarrassingly bad at controlling himself -- less supported by the evidence. "Fuck," Geoffrey said, breathlessly. "Just -- let me catch my breath --" He could have sworn Oliver was laughing at him, but at that point it didn't matter what he thought. If he'd wanted to draw out the -- the word "arc" was entirely too apt -- "Dammit," Geoffrey said, trying and entirely failing to keep his voice even, "you're going to make me come already." Suzanne would've been halfway across the room before he finished the sentence -- no, she wouldn't have, but she wouldn't have covered Geoffrey's hand with her own and sucked just that much harder. "God, Oliver --" Geoffrey grabbed his hand and tried to breathe more slowly for the illusion of having a little control over himself, but he had absolutely nothing. He couldn't even put together a sentence, nothing but, "Fuck, yes," just before he came, shaking and biting his lip hard with the effort to keep his voice low. Oliver had the dubious grace to keep the smug expression on his face to a fond, if somewhat fatuous, smile. He undermined the impression of self-control by asking, "Any notes?" as soon as Geoffrey got his eyes open again. Geoffrey patted Oliver's hand and shook his head. His toes had found a way to tangle themselves into Gordian knots sometime when he wasn't paying attention. Putting together an appropriate answer took longer, but he had an excuse to be slow. "Well, it was a little rushed for the first act." "I figured it was better to grab their interest early than let them wonder when the action would start." Oliver moved up the bed enough to kiss Geoffrey on the cheek. "But now that it has --" "You have my interest, all right," Geoffrey said. He stretched his shoulders and asked, "What was the blocking you had in mind of the next scene?" "I'm considering a few options." Oliver was cheerfully smug in the morning, though the striking thing about his behavior in public was how little it changed. The apprentices were over the new gossip by the third night, and Geoffrey settled into the concept of something resembling a sexual relationship with Oliver. There were definite benefits -- unlike the young company, Oliver ate food other than macaroni and cheese, even when it was nearly payday. There weren't any screaming fights over who did what in the bathroom when, and the people in the other half of the house that held the apartment had more cause to complain about noisy sex than Geoffrey did -- though they never said anything, and simply refused to look at him when their paths met in the street. It was perfectly civil. The only argument that got anywhere near knock-down drag-out level was about the play, Antony's death scene, specifically, and in the middle of that particular tiff, Geoffrey ended up sleeping on the couch in truth. He woke up and found Oliver in the fraying armchair, watching him. "You're not exactly right," Oliver said, "but I'm willing to compromise with you." Geoffrey covered his eyes. "Compromise? How?" "The flailing hand -- yes, that was over the top," Oliver admitted, "but the audience needs to see something. They wouldn't believe in a nonviolent death. Antony, whatever his other sins, is a soldier, and he doesn't go quietly." "I don't mind twitching a little more," Geoffrey said, and sat up. "It was mostly flinging myself around like some kind of Roman rag doll that undermined the gravity of the moment." "Your point is made." Oliver sat next to him on the couch. "How did you sleep?" Geoffrey patted the arm of the couch. "It's comfortable enough." "Oh, lord, Geoffrey." Oliver shook his head. "I offered you an olive branch, you took it -- this is the perfect time to have sex, if you're not going to go the whole hog and swear undying devotion." "Why the hell would I do that?" Geoffrey asked, standing. "I don't even feel undying devotion to your vision of this play." He sat precariously on the arm of the chair and kissed Oliver. "Careful, there." Oliver ran his fingers through Geoffrey's hair. "Do you want this job, or don't you?" "You're terrible at threats." Geoffrey kissed him again so as not to laugh at him. "Completely, utterly implausible." "I'm an unholy terror." Oliver tugged his hair lightly. "I just have blind spots, that's all." Geoffrey laughed. "Unholy, I'll grant you." "Good to know you have some faith." Oliver kissed him again. "Come to bed with me." Geoffrey sighed exaggeratedly and stood up. "I suppose it's easier to wash the sheets than the upholstery. You're so bourgeois in your kinks, Oliver." "Someday in the not horribly distant future, I will be leaving this furnished apartment for greater things," Oliver said in fine declamatory style as he followed Geoffrey into the bedroom. "I'd rather not lose a security deposit and put my back out at the same time." The theatre staff seemed happy enough to have Oliver directing for them, but that was hardly a reason to stay in one place. "Such pedestrian concerns," Geoffrey scoffed, as it was far better than asking, "When are you leaving?" He had had a damn good career -- short, but decidedly upward-trending -- before Oliver, and he was almost entirely certain he'd manage the same trajectory after him if necessary. Oliver clucked his tongue. "The devil's in the details. Take off your shirt already, Geoff; if I were going to turn into my mother, I'd say you look like you crawled out of the ragbag." Geoffrey tugged it off over his head and dropped it, which did nothing to make it more wrinkled. "I suppose you were up half the night devising some glorious reconciliation." "It came to me with the dawn." Oliver shrugged. Geoffrey spread his hands. "What would you?" * Halfway through the run of Antony and Cleopatra, Oliver left town for "personal reasons" for several days. "Where did he go?" Cleo asked Geoffrey after the show. Her eyebrows were still greasepaint. "He didn't say." Geoffrey patted the pocket that held the keys Oliver had left for him. Cleo shook her head sadly. "I knew there'd be trouble in paradise sooner or later." "None but Antony should conquer Antony." Geoffrey shrugged. "Besides, he's entirely too old for me." As was Cleo, by the same token; she was several years Oliver's senior. She scowled at him somewhat affectionately. "You missed one of the grey streaks in your hair when you washed up." Geoffrey brushed at his temple. "Those are but the ashes of my youth." "Where did he really go?" she asked again, stepping into his personal space. "Interviews, obviously, but where?" "Maybe he didn't trust me not to tell you under duress." Geoffrey grinned at her. Cleo touched his cheek. "Would you?" "If I knew, I might, but I'm not lying." She frowned and backed off. "And that doesn't bother you?" Her offers of sympathy were nothing he wanted to hear. "Not significantly, no." He smiled, making it deliberately false. She shook her head at him. "When you're starving on the street, call me up, okay?" Geoffrey chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind." Cleo left him alone after that, and she clearly said enough to the rest of the cast that they gave him pitying or mocking looks, depending on their opinion of the matter. Ed took the opportunity to ask, pointedly, "You're not bunking in the green room or something, are you?" Geoffrey shook his keys at Ed and bought him a drink after the show. "I'm fine, thanks." Oliver came back after midnight, having missed Alexas's best performance to date and Cleo's least overwrought death scene. He came in as quietly as anyone could with a suitcase too wide for the space between the armchair and the bookcase. "It's all right," Geoffrey called from the closet that passed for a kitchen, and left his cocoa there to greet Oliver properly. Oliver looked exhausted and elated at the same time, as he might after a rough dress and a smooth opening. "Ah, good. I would have had to wake you to tell you, in any case -- such news." He kissed Geoffrey lightly. "I've been offered a position in New Burbage. Oh, the stage, Geoff -- the history, the budget --" "Congratulations." Geoffrey patted his shoulder and contemplated Cleo's offer. She, at least, wouldn't be leaving town any time soon. If they renewed his contract without Oliver's influence -- and they probably would -- he would either be moving back to a group house or into some garret. "I suppose they've been to some of the productions here." "Yes, and did they tell me they were coming? No, of course not." Oliver beamed at him. "God, New Burbage." "I'm very happy for you." Geoffrey yawned, and halfway through it became a real one. "Tell me about it over breakfast." It would help to have a solid night's sleep to deal with Oliver's cheerfulness about his departure, none of which Geoffrey shared. Oliver laughed. "I wouldn't have -- well, I would've woken you up to tell you this, but they'd be thrilled to have you, too." "Oh my God." Geoffrey hugged him fiercely, visions of grand theatres and pitch-perfect companies, thrilled audiences and thrilling parts filling his head. "Jesus, why didn't you say that to start with? That's -- God, that's wonderful." "I wanted to work up to it." Oliver kissed his cheek. "They asked for you, you know." That made the news even better, though the way decisions went in that sort of thing, Oliver might have dropped a hint and they'd taken him up on it. Whatever had happened, Geoffrey was certain he'd prove he was worth their time. "I can't believe it." "Do." Oliver kissed him again. "They said your Antony was magnificent. Are you going to argue?" "No. Not at all -- God." Geoffrey laughed at himself, his lack of words, and out of sheer delight. "When do we leave?" Oliver blinked at him, then squeezed his shoulders hard. "After the season ends. You'll have to help me pack." "Of course, of course." Geoffrey hugged him again. "What fucking news." "Let me tell them, here?" Oliver asked. "It hardly matters, does it?" Geoffrey kissed him. "Whatever you want. God, you should always come home with news this fucking great." "Yes, I should." Oliver patted his shoulder and backed away slightly. "I desperately need a shower and some sleep -- and then we'll have to talk about Brutus." The possibility was entirely too pleasant to be believed. "Oh, no." Geoffrey held up his hands. "This is too much." "Not at all." Oliver winked at him. "But I need my sleep, darling." Geoffrey snorted. "You damned well don't, not as much as you need to talk to me." "You'll keep me up till all hours tomorrow." Oliver yawned widely, half-covering his mouth. "Let me get my beauty sleep tonight." "How do you expect me to sleep after all that?" Geoffrey threw his hands up. "You had days to deal with this. I may never sleep again." Oliver caught his hands and kissed the backs lightly. "Then talk to me of it until I sleep, and we'll pick up again in the morning, all too soon." "Damn it, I'm not joking." Geoffrey kissed him again, as much to get his attention as anything else. "To hell with sleep." Oliver unfastened his coat and threw it on the armchair. "This doesn't happen every day." "How long is your contract for?" Geoffrey took off the flannel shirt he'd been wearing and threw it the direction of the couch. "A season, to start with -- as is yours. But God, Geoff --" Oliver kissed his cheeks, one after the other. "They'll know what they're seeing out there." Geoffrey laughed and unbuttoned Oliver's collar. "One chance, really." Oliver unbuttoned his cuffs and the rest of his shirt. "Give them one speech -- one line --" "The right speech. The right line." Geoffrey tucked his hands under the edges of Oliver's shirt and opened it. Oliver tugged him toward the bedroom. "You'll make it the right line, whatever it is." He turned on the lamp by the bed, which filled the room with a pale blue light. "You always do." Geoffrey took off his pants and underwear, conscious of Oliver watching him. He pulled the sheets back and sat on the bed. "Your audition pieces are much more complicated." He shook his head. "So many things can go wrong." "Which is why I wanted you there. Someone whose instincts I trust." Oliver touched his cheek. "Touch yourself for me." "What, really?" Geoffrey hoped he wasn't blushing enough to be visible. "What for?" Oliver sat on the end of the bed, his shirt and pants hanging open. "I've always enjoyed watching you." "Might as well call a table reading after the third week of performances." Geoffrey sat up enough to look at him without craning his neck, but there was nothing in Oliver's expression other than prurient interest. "But if I've been that off -- fine. How do you want me to play it, then?" "So much for instincts." Oliver patted his calf. "Gallantly, darling. With sincerity." Geoffrey rolled his shoulders slightly and covered his erection with his hand. The thought was more embarrassing than the act, but he felt off-balance. It seemed only fair to throw Oliver off a little in return. "That will ask some tears in the true performing of it." "Oh, god." Oliver pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to laugh until his shoulders shook. He kept his tone dry, but he was watching Geoffrey stroke himself slowly as he spoke. "If I were going to ask for a monologue, that would hardly be the one I wanted." Geoffrey squeezed himself gently and had the satisfaction of making Oliver sigh before Geoffrey had to. "Yet my chief humor is for a tyrant --" Not that Oliver would necessarily hear it as anything other than a compliment. "If you say, 'a part to tear a cat in,' I'll --" Oliver finished taking his shirt off and tossed it toward the hamper with a flourish "-- I'll weep and throw you out on your ear." It was tempting to see just how much Oliver meant the threat, but equally tempting to stroke himself a little faster and make the teasing more pointed. "You, you could play Ercles rarely." Oliver moved up the bed and kissed him, nibbling his lower lip to extend the kiss and, likely, to keep Geoffrey silent as long as possible. "You're insufferable. If this is your interpretation of gallantry, chivalry really is dead." "I will condole in some measure," Geoffrey offered, though his voice was growing hoarse. He put his free hand on Oliver's shoulder and pulled him down for another kiss. Oliver covered his wrist and urged him to move his hand more quickly, watching his face. "You're thinking entirely too clearly. Focus, Geoff." Geoffrey bit his lip in an effort not to groan; it wouldn't be a good enough show if he gave in so soon, but he was running out of both lines and the ability to time himself properly. "Not so, neither." He closed his eyes, but he was as aware of Oliver watching him as of the bed underneath him. "Must you?" Oliver squeezed his wrist, then let him go. "You don't usually go to such trouble to be an ass." He shifted his weight. "God, you're beautiful, though." "I'll speak in a monstrous little voice," Geoffrey offered, though he was too breathless to attempt it in truth, and Oliver covered his mouth. "Not now." He kissed Geoffrey's ear and murmured, "Let him roar again." Geoffrey laughed and gasped in the middle of it as Oliver pinched one of his nipples, then the other, with damp fingers. "As long as you -- God -- don't ask me to play Hippolyta --" Oliver kissed his neck. "I wouldn't dream of it." "Jesus, Oliver --" Geoffrey bit his lip hard and came, as much to end the conversation as because he was tired of teasing himself. He glared at Oliver through the haze of pleasure. "That was the worst joke --" "Yours were much worse." Oliver kissed him, lingering. "But you see, I forgive you." "They weren't," Geoffrey protested, interrupting himself by yawning. "Modern youth -- no stamina." Oliver clucked his tongue. "I'm the one who's been traveling the globe, and you're going to fall asleep on me?" Geoffrey shook his head and suppressed another yawn. "No." "Your Bottom was more convincing than that." Oliver kissed his cheek. "Well, in that case --" Geoffrey smiled at him serenely, silently daring Oliver to call him on yet another horrible joke. The double entendre was enough of a joke on its own, especially while Geoffrey was sober; it had only been a handful of times, memorable for more awkwardness than either of them could bear comfortably. On the other hand, it was a special occasion. Oliver raised his eyebrows. "You're going to fall asleep on me." "Under your direction?" Geoffrey waved his hand, remembered that he was a horrible mess, and winced. "How could I possibly?" In the event, he was half-right and half-asleep, reminding himself to stay as calm as he could with Oliver's fingers inside him; thinking about what they were doing tended to make it more difficult. By the time Oliver kissed Geoffrey's shoulder blade and asked, "Are you ready?" everything seemed at some significant distance. The tension in Oliver's voice was disconnected from the slick stretch of his fingers. Geoffrey stopped himself from yawning and moved one of the pillows while he had the chance, tucking it under his chin. "When you are." There was nothing relaxing about the way it felt, and though Oliver was saying something, he was speaking too softly for Geoffrey to make sense out of it. "God," Oliver said, and paused. It broke the rhythm of his words enough to make it clear that there had been one. "This is no time for a soliloquy," Geoffrey said, and covered Oliver's hand where it was splayed on the mattress with his own. "No, no soliloquies." Oliver kissed the back of his neck. "Sonnets, though -- do that again -- yes, like that --" Geoffrey shivered and took a deep breath. "Dare I ask which?" Oliver moaned and ran his hand down Geoffrey's stomach. "You're hardly my Dark Lady, darling." "It's all right." Geoffrey pushed Oliver's hand away from his cock. "I don't want more, now." Oliver paused with a clear effort of will. "No?" "Another time." Geoffrey patted his hand and rocked back against him. "Fuck, Geoffrey --" Oliver clutched at him and shuddered; whether it had been the words, the movement, or both, he came a few seconds later. It took him far longer to find the energy to get off Geoffrey enough to clean up. "You're sure?" Oliver asked. Geoffrey yawned again and weighed the benefits of taking a shower against the extremely appealing thought of simply going to sleep. "I'm not awake enough to mind." He moved enough to the left side of the bed that Oliver would have plenty of space to sleep. "Don't worry about it." "It's not a night for worrying." Oliver kissed him softly. He was asleep before Oliver had turned off the light. * Geoffrey's apartment in New Burbage was approximately the size of a nutshell, but he insisted on having it from the first. Regardless of what he knew about the reasons he'd been hired, he had to prove his worth to his new colleagues, and he had no intention of doing that while also living in Oliver's back pocket, metaphorically speaking. It was extremely helpful to have a place to storm off to when the discussions of exactly where everyone should be standing at some particular moment outgrew their own gravity and threatened to destroy the environs. Moreover, it gave him a reasonable modicum of plausible deniability regarding what exactly he did when he went to visit Oliver, and precisely what their relationship entailed. In New Burbage, even more than Vancouver, Geoffrey had no intention of letting anyone say he'd slept his way to the top. That didn't cut into the number of nights he stayed up with Oliver until all hours, either discussing the play or having sex or both, but it made him more likely to stagger back to his apartment before he fell asleep. Two weeks into the rehearsals, Geoffrey got tired of the stain on his bedroom ceiling, which looked something like Scandinavia. He pulled on a sweater and a pair of pants and walked to the house Oliver had optimistically bought for himself. Despite the fact that it was some time after midnight, it only took Oliver half a minute to answer Geoffrey's knock, which he did in a haze of alcohol and a disreputable bathrobe. "You would wake the dead," Oliver accused him. "I'm not moving in with you," Geoffrey declared, "but I'd spend more time with you -- outside of rehearsal, of course -- if you promised to shut up about Caesar's fucking speeches." Oliver frowned at him. "For how long, exactly? You're not going to shut up about them all the time, so it's not exactly fair." Geoffrey shivered. "Let me in, will you?" Oliver made a grand gesture of welcome only slightly spoiled by the frayed cuff of his robe, and Geoffrey went in, counting off scenarios on his fingers. "Over meals. And in any sort of amorous encounter. And for at least a damned hour after rehearsal no matter what." Oliver closed and deadbolted the door, then leaned on it. "I don't trust you to hold to this." "I and my sword will earn our chronicle." Geoffrey spread his hands. "And if I falter, you have as much right to chide me as I do you." "And you'll stop pretending we've hardly met." Oliver raised his eyebrows. "I haven't been doing that -- exactly." "I missed you, you know." Oliver shook his head slowly. Geoffrey laughed. "We see each other every fucking day, whether we like it or not." "That's not what I meant, and you damned well know it." Oliver gave him a clumsy kiss, then said querulously, "I solemnly swear not to bring up any plays, ever, during meals or sex or for a while after we -- if it is we -- get home, so long as you don't either." Geoffrey shook his hand. "I do so swear." Oliver squeezed his hand. "Spend the night, darling. It's too late to go wandering through the streets." New Burbage was hardly Toronto, but Geoffrey forbore from pointing this out. Besides, it was quite cold out, and he'd left his coat at his tiny apartment. "If you'll have me." "Any way I can." * Opening night of Julius Caesar, the audience was enthusiastic, even through the overplayed speech that Geoffrey had decided to loathe for the first half of rehearsals, and come to love somewhere after Charles Kingman, whose Caesar made Geoffrey look like he ought to be playing Octavius, took him aside and explained just how much pain he needed to put into the damned lines, boy. As Geoffrey was unwinding his toga, Lillian, his Portia, came into his dressing room and kissed him. She was still in costume. "You were fantastic, Geoff." "So were you," he said, staring at her. She'd never given a hint of interest in him -- not in any serious way -- but they'd managed some tension and affection in their scenes. "God, that was --" she kissed him again, pulling him close. WIth her hands running through his hair, he could imagine the crowd again: the way they'd risen to their feet for him, for Charles, for her in her way. It hadn't been a perfect night, but it had been everything he wanted it to be and more. Portia's hand under his toga made him gasp and pull away, but only to shake off the last yards of fabric, then unwind her from her stola. "How the Romans ever managed their proverbial orgies is beyond me," he said. She giggled and pulled him down into another kiss, then peeled his underwear down and off of him. "I know, I -- oh, god." They found the chair by the mirror, somehow, stumbling blind between kisses, and he ended up in it with her on his lap, both "Jesus, the door's not locked," he said, and she ground down against him, her hands quick and slick between her legs. "Just -- ah -- relax, it's okay -- God, Geoffrey, you feel -- you're so -- amazing --" He kissed her again, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, and thrust up into her in the best rhythm he could find until she gasped and trembled, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. When her orgasm had passed, she squeezed him with her thighs and pushed herself faster, saying, "Please, just -- oh, fuck, yes --" and he followed her a few moments later, stifling his groan against her mouth. As soon as he could think, he laughed. "God, Lillian -- that was fun." She grinned at him, kissed him, and got up. "We should go get cleaned up for the party." "Yes." Geoffrey reached for the box of tissues on the counter. "God." She threw her stola on and tossed him his abused toga. "See you later, Geoff." He barely managed to cover himself decently before she opened the door and left. It was the first time he'd had sex with anyone without some kind of debate about something beforehand for a year and a half, and it left him laughing in relief. The party was like every other opening party, except that Lillian kept giving him knowing looks and Oliver, who was drunk before he arrived, made an attempt to kiss Geoffrey in public which he had to dodge. Geoffrey left early, and alone; once with Lillian had been pleasant, but twice would have been less so. The call sheets said ten-o'clock; Geoffrey woke up shortly after seven with a clear head and went to the theatre early. "Why, good morning!" Anna called to him as he went past the office. She was the Administrative Director's assistant, and she seemed to be as divorced from the drama of producing drama as anyone could possibly be. "I didn't think actors were alive at eight after openings," she said, and chuckled at her own joke. "Only sometimes." Geoffrey came in and leaned on her desk. "How do the reviews look?" She handed him a xerox of one whose headline, pathetically, read, "Lend Him Your Ears." "Pretty good, Geoffrey. Pretty good." He skimmed it for his own name first, smiled at "brash" and "unexpected" and "delightful," then looked for Charles's name. "Staid" wasn't so much of a compliment, but it was better than most. Anna said, "When you're done, May wanted to talk to you." "May I keep this?" he asked, waving the xerox. "Sure, sure." Geoffrey tucked it away. "Is May in yet?" "In her office. Oh, and Geoffrey -- congratulations again." He smiled and nodded back. "Thanks." May was at her desk with several newspaper clippings and a looseleaf binder, along with all of the prop pieces from various years nearly hiding the sign that read "General Manager." Her door was ajar, and when Geoffrey tapped on it, she said, "Come in! Goodness, I wasn't expecting any of you so early." She stood up and came around the desk, giving him a smile that reminded him of his aunt Sarah. "You even look well-rested. Imagine." "I suppose I needed it." Geoffrey smiled back at her. "Anna said you wanted to see me." "To congratulate you on a job well done," May said, and shook his hand. "Your reviews are extremely positive." "I saw one of them -- Anna gave me a xerox." He glanced at her desk. "The others are good, too?" "Very much so. Here, you can read them if you like." May handed him another. "I'm so glad you joined our company, Geoffrey." The review she had handed him described him as a "rising star, destined to shine in New Burbage." It was as good as applause, as good as Lillian had been. "God, so am I." There was a tap on the door while Geoffrey was reading the fourth review after skimming it for the highlights. Oliver said, "Good morning, May -- oh, good lord, Geoffrey. Don't you look chipper." "Good morning," Geoffrey said, though when he looked at Oliver, he could see that it decidedly wasn't. If Oliver had gotten home at some hour before dawn, he hadn't done it under his own power, and he didn't look like he'd seen a bed all night. "Oliver, the reviews are quite good," May said, and she pressed one upon him. "So Anna said." Oliver's smile was forced, but he looked at the review dutifully. Geoffrey cleared his throat and stood. "I'm going to get a cup of coffee before rehearsal." Oliver set down the paper on May's desk. "A word with you while you do, Geoff?" "Congratulations to you both," May said. Geoffrey smiled at her. "Thank you, May." "Thanks," Oliver said curtly, and he put his arm around Geoffrey's shoulders as they left the office. "Coffee is a good place to start." "Did you have too much fun at the party, or not enough?" Oliver squeezed his shoulder tightly as they walked past Anna's desk. "I heard you had a lovely time before it. All roses and Lillians." "Ah." Geoffrey cleared his throat. "Well, yes." Oliver stopped by the coffeepot and gave Geoffrey a bleary once-over. "I thought she was lying." Geoffrey spread his hands, not entirely sure where this line of inquiry was headed. "No; she's not terribly nice, but she's honest." Oliver ran his hand over his face. "Why?" "No sense of personal shame?" Geoffrey suggested. The look in Oliver's eyes made him stop, but he didn't want to argue over it. "Why not?" He lowered his voice; there was no scandal to speak of in what he'd done with Lillian, but a public argument over it with Oliver would be the talk of the town for weeks. "She offered, I said yes, it's over." "No sense of personal shame." Oliver sighed and poured himself a cup of coffee. "But just the once?" Geoffrey rolled his eyes. "She's Portia, not Lady Macbeth, and there's a damned good reason for that. Did you see her reviews?" Oliver tore open three packets of sugar at once. "Is that a yes?" "Hell yes." Geoffrey poured himself a cup of coffee and doused it liberally with milk, trying not to laugh. He didn't want to explain the situation to Anna or May or anyone. "It was just -- one of those opening night things." Oliver picked up his coffee and blew on it. "I'll see you at rehearsal, Geoffrey." "Hang on." Geoffrey frowned at him. "Are you going to stop speaking to me or something equally adolescent over this?" "Never that." Oliver patted his arm. "Go drink your coffee in the sunshine, darling; you're looking terribly pale for an Italian." He walked, somewhat more slowly than normal, toward his office. * "Romeo? Jesus, Oliver, I'm not twenty anymore." Geoffrey dropped the proposed season onto the kitchen table. "If you wanted to do that play with me -- again -- you should've said something when they first hired you. Why wait five years?" "Your Juliet will be here tomorrow, and you'll see why it had to be now." Oliver picked up the maligned schedule. "She's no spring chicken, either, but you'll be smashing together." Geoffrey closed his eyes. "Why not put her in as Cleopatra, then?" Oliver sighed. "She has family in town, Geoff -- a house already, even -- and I want her to want to stay for as many seasons as we can all happily stand each other. If you'd seen her Kate, you'd understand." "You saw her as Kate, she's old enough for Egypt, and you want us to do R and J?" Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair. "This is going to be a fiasco. No one's going to buy a sixty-year-old harridan as Juliet." "She's neither of those things, and you're overreacting. I can't exactly call her agent and say, 'I'm sorry, I've had a change of heart; we're going to be putting on the Dream instead'." "That might even be worse." Geoffrey sat down. "Oh, God, we're doing it again." Oliver took a deep breath. "Yes, quite. And how was your day, then?" "Tedious-brief." Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the table. "Romeo? Really?" "Oh, stop. Yes, really; if you hate it too much, you can do the Anouilh in March, as if you need another Henry under your belt." Oliver sat down. "Besides, you do him so well." "Ten years ago, sure." Geoffrey made deer eyes at him. "You'll be wonderful." Oliver patted his hand and stood up. "As for my day, I had four meetings and a headache." "I'll do my best," Geoffrey said. Oliver nodded. "Of course you will. Soup, do you think, or should we order Chinese?" * "Are you serious?" Geoffrey whispered to Oliver. Oliver elbowed him, smiled, and raised his voice. "Ellen! Come and meet your Romeo." It was perfectly clear from her bearing that Ellen Fanshaw had played a scorching, terrifying shrew, and from her demeanor that she considered it her right to be at the New Burbage festival. She strode over with a swirl of fabric and smiled at them. "Oliver. And you must be Geoffrey." He gave her a little bow. "And you're Ellen. Juliet." Her smile was no fair Capulet's innocent beam, but it had its own charms. "Nice to meet you." "Now that we're all acquainted, let's get this reading started." Oliver patted Geoffrey on the shoulder and nudged them to their seats at the table. While Oliver made the normal directorial remarks about the play, the cast, his hopes for the season, or whatever, Geoffrey was studying Ellen out of the corner of his eye, trying to discern what had possessed Oliver to cast her in her current role. Her hair was a pleasant shade of red, which had nothing to do with anything, and she was watching Oliver talk with the appropriate posture of attention. But there were any number of young actresses, surely, who could have done that much and more. If she had been hired to feed Oliver's ego, she was poorly chosen; any of a hundred girls could have done it better. Once they actually began, Geoffrey understood. Her bare handful of lines in the scene with the Nurse were enough to give her space to transform herself. What did age matter, really, or any other thing? She could have been two meters tall and still projected that same innocence. When he said, "O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright," he meant it as wholly as Romeo should, and he barely saw the script after that, let alone the other actors. It took a great force of will to keep from kissing her at the appointed times, and either she was sad that he had done so, or she felt Juliet deserved better. "O, happy dagger, this is thy sheath," said Juliet, and stabbed herself with air. Geoffrey leaned over during Friar Laurence's speech and said, "Let me buy you a drink." Ellen smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." "Lunchtime, everyone," Oliver said, when the scene ended, and nodded to the stage manager. Geoffrey stood and offered Ellen his arm. "Perhaps not a drink just now, but -- lunch?" She put her arm through his and looked thoroughly pleased to have it there. "Gladly." Oliver looked at them and raised his eyebrows at Geoffrey. "Well?" Geoffrey nodded. "You told me so. See you after the break." Ellen touched his arm. "Why not make it a bigger group?" The thought of having Oliver there was claustrophobic. "Oliver and I have a pact not to discuss work over lunch, and I wanted to talk to you about it." Oliver shook his head. "Far be it from me to hold you to an uncomfortable arrangement, Geoff." "Do come with us, then," Ellen said, and took Oliver's arm as well. Before they'd even reached the restaurant, Oliver had told the story of Mercutio's speech and how he'd argued with Geoffrey about it, ages ago. "That was not the problem," Geoffrey objected. "It wasn't my moment, that's all." Ellen laughed and gave him a smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Good to know you're not going to fight to upstage me all the time." "He's learned a thing or two since then," Oliver said dryly. "So have you," Geoffrey said. There was a moment where Ellen paused and seemed to be about to ask a question, but she didn't. "Well, I haven't done Juliet in a decade either, so we'll figure it out." Lunch involved egg rolls, piles of lo mein, and a series of ludicrous suggestions on how to make the balcony scene new. Oliver said, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me!" Ellen said, "Excuse me a minute," and stood. Geoffrey had to close his eyes briefly not to watch her go. Oliver leaned across the table. "She's wonderful, isn't she?" "Yes." Geoffrey was entirely aware that his smile ended up looking goofy, but he was comfortable with that; it was just what he needed for Romeo. "She's perfect." "Oh, God." Oliver leaned back in his chair. "You're going to be 'busy' tonight, aren't you." "She said she'd go out for a drink with me." Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, slouching in ways that would be wholly unsightly onstage. "You've got paperwork to do anyway; you said so yesterday." Oliver frowned at him. "If you're falling for her, I want to be there to stop you." Geoffrey frowned back. "Why the hell would you try to do that?" For what seemed like a very long time, Oliver stared at him, his mouth half open. He leaned over the table again and asked in a low voice, "Just what the fuck do you think we've been doing?" "Which part? You know what we do; we put on amazing plays and argue incessantly about putting on amazing plays. Occasionally, we have sex, but that's not really the point." Geoffrey shrugged. "It's not like we're dating." "No? We've only been living together for seven fucking years." Oliver folded his arms and glared at him. "Doesn't that count for something?" Geoffrey laughed, uncomfortably close to hysteria. "Jesus, Oliver, you know I'm not in love with you. I would've said something somewhere along the line." Oliver turned entirely away from him. "And I have my own place, anyway." "Just as well. I won't lend you my damned couch so you can fuck her, no matter how good she is." Oliver stood up, still looking away from him. "I'll be back," he said, his voice tight. "You make a horrible Rosaline," Geoffrey called after him. He wanted to run after Oliver and shout at him, but he had no idea what he would say. Instead, he moved his plate and dripped water from his straw on the poorly spelled Chinese horoscopes until all the personality characteristics ran together. Ellen came back and Geoffrey dropped his straw. She smiled at him. "Did Oliver go back to the theatre?" "No, just --" he waved his hand toward the restrooms. "Ah." She took another egg roll, dipped it in duck sauce, and studied Geoffrey's face. "So, Brian said you guys were together." "That's not the word I would use," Geoffrey said, smiling at her instead of trying to find the word he would actually use for whatever it was -- had been. "And, well -- not anymore." "Oh. Well, in that case I guess we're still on for that drink?" Ellen grinned at him. "Absolutely." Oliver came back just as Ellen said, "If you really wanted to make the death scene new, you could try hanging yourself." He laughed and sat down again. The laughter probably didn't sound particularly forced to Ellen, and she might not even have noticed that he'd washed his face; Geoffrey noticed both and made a concerted effort not to feel guilty about them. "Or we could start it off with the dagger speech from the Scottish Play to really confuse the audience." The suggestion was enough like how he might normally engage in the conversation to reassure Geoffrey. He reached for the empty space in front of his eyes. "Is this a dagger -- I mean a vial of poison -- I see before me? Yes? No? Apparently I've taken drugs and can't tell the difference." Ellen laughed and patted his knee. "Well, if you've been kissing me for a while, the effect could be the same." She paused just long enough to make Geoffrey wonder how she'd meant that before she added, "After all, Juliet's poison could have any number of effects on Romeo." "Too true, too true." Oliver shook his head, and if he didn't quite meet Geoffrey's eyes when Geoffrey glanced at him, he wasn't nearly as pale as he had been, either. "That's another option -- the fatal overdose of laudanum." "Or mushrooms, if you wanted to make the audience think they'd gone to the movies." Geoffrey winked at him. Ellen hit Geoffrey's arm. "God, no, I'd quit in a second." "So would I," Oliver said, and shook his head. "Though with a red-headed Juliet --" "I'll dye it," Ellen said quickly. "Blonde, black, whatever. Purple, even." "That wouldn't be period," Geoffrey said. "Henna, on the other hand, is perfect." Oliver met his eyes with a mocking but honest smile. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was enough for Geoffrey to believe that everything would work out. "It would clash horribly with your complexion, darling." Geoffrey and Ellen laughed, and after a moment, Oliver did, too. "But really, do you think I should dye it?" Ellen asked, running her hand through her hair. "Not at all." Oliver shook his head. "Anyone who can't tell from the first moment you step on stage that you are, unlike some people who have attempted the role, a consummate actress, is welcome to leave immediately." "Thank you," she said, smiling at him. "Not at all." Oliver took the check. "I only hire the best." There were plenty of directors who would fire an actor for a smaller personal offense than -- however Oliver wanted to think of what Geoffrey had done. But he wasn't threatening, making a scene, or even saying something cutting to Ellen. He couldn't be terribly upset. Ellen took Geoffrey's hand under the table. "I noticed." "But even the best need rehearsal." Oliver looked at his watch and made a face. "We'd better be getting back. You go on ahead. I'll be right behind you." "Thanks again," Ellen said, and stood. Her grace was not like Juliet's; it was something altogether more mature, but no less captivating. Geoffrey put his coat on, watching Ellen arrange her wrap. He glanced at Oliver as he said, "See you in a minute, then." Oliver seemed fine when they left the table. He was still sitting in the window when they walked past on their way back to the theatre. Geoffrey offered Ellen his arm. He said, "I must be gone and live," as she took it. She laughed. "I won't cap that quotation for you now. It's the wrong time of day for larks or nightingales." "Later?" he asked. She kissed his cheek. "Gladly."
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