For Cesare: The Play's The Thing
Title: The Play's The Thing
Recipient: Cesare (almostnever)
Author: trianne
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG13
Summary: Dom and Billy are in a production together
Pre-reveal Notes: Dom and Billy would be so good in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, it's criminal they haven't done it already...
Post-reveal Notes: Thank you, Elouisa, for the beta
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It was the two of them to a tee. They had been born to play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, courtiers of Denmark - that state wherein there was something decidedly rotten. Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of course, though neither of them ruled out doing the original from the Bard one day. But for now, it was the wit and wonder of Stoppard that appealed to them, big style.
So it was, that Dom sat upon the rickety chair in the wings, opened his dog-eared copy of that very play and began to speak lines silently, his brows drawn down as he concentrated on the sacred text.
His Rosencrantz had to be perfect, nothing less would do. He could do inept and absurd, was rather good at inept and absurd actually. As he read to himself, he smiled at the same phrases he always smiled at, loving the prose and more than a little in love with Mr. Stoppard.
"You know what you're doing this time, Dom?"
The flat, businesslike tones of McEnery, the stage manager, jolted Dom out of his reverie; he closed his book and nodded agreeably.
"Sure, no worries. It's going to be great performance!"
McEnery gave him a suspicious look, muttered something about bums-on-seats and no- repeat-of-last-night's-fiasco, scratched his balls, then snapped, "And where's that mate of yours? He's not going to be late again, is he?"
Guildenstern. Or rather, Billy: the most amazing Guildenstern in the world, the Worcester sauce to Dom's cheese-on-toast; the Fred to his Ginger; the Noel to his Liam...
His face must have assumed the usual soppy look it did when he was thinking of Billy, because he suddenly became acutely aware that McEnery was glaring at him. He aimed for a reassuring tone: "No, no, he won't be late. He's a pro, is Billy. He, he rang me earlier to say he had to pick up a prescription from the chemist for, for something he's got wrong with him, something not contagious I hasten to add, but something quite, quite -- trivial yet at the same time... important," he finished lamely.
McEnery snorted and seemed about to give him an ear bashing but luckily for Dom he spotted someone somewhere doing something not exactly to his liking, and off he shot, his voice already winding itself up into a sarcastic corkscrew of contempt.
Dom hated confrontation. He sagged back into his chair and closed his eyes for a moment.
A voice, familiar, beloved: "I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself."
Dom grinned, resisted the urge to open his eyes, came back with, "Or just as mad."
"Or just as mad."
"And he does both."
"So there you are."
And now Dom did open his eyes, couldn't help himself, stood up and gesticulated expansively, triumphantly recited Rosencrantz's punch line, "Stark raving sane."
Billy winked appreciatively, sat in the chair Dom had just vacated crossing his knees and clasped them like a prim twelve-year-old girl - and waited.
"McEnery was on the warpath again, the stupid-," Dom obliged, though he gave a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear before finishing with "-twat."
Billy sighed. "The McEnerys of this world are limited beings, my friend, bound up in their own petty concerns, not for the likes of us to worry about. What did you tell him, by the way?"
"I told him you had to nip out for some Anusol Cream."
"Thanks mate. I'll return the favour one day," Billy said sweetly. "I got the bet on, it's a cert."
Dom loved the way Billy's breathing quickened when he was really excited, which he was now. If it was the gee gees that did it, well, he could live with that; as long as he didn't have to compete with another bloke... God forbid, oh God forbid.
The pressure of Billy's hand on Dom's thigh certainly excited Dom more than any ruddy racehorse ever could; a clever hand, an insistent hand. "Give us a quick kiss and then I think we should get into costume,"
Billy's voice was -- much to Dom's delight -- now a little husky. He reached up for Dom and pulled him down so their lips met. Billy never cared who saw them like that, who might be passing-by, the idea of being embarrassed by it never even occurred to him. Dom loved that about Billy, among a whole host of other more tangible attributes.
"Guildenstern, this isn't in the play -- either of them," he murmured, giddy with the warmth of Billy's breath on his face, Billy's body so very close.
"That, my dear, is why neither William Shakespeare nor Tom Stoppard will ever amount to anything -- they have no imagination..." Billy couldn't stop himself smirking, pleased with himself, breaking the intimacy. It was just as well, if they were to avoid the wrath of McEnery and be there for their cue on time.
They made their way to their dressing room; theirs was a small theatre in a small provincial town, no budget for fripperies or even for a working bog. But for the last two weeks it had been home.
As they got ready, they could hear the theatre come to life; fellow actors, musicians, prop master, stage hands, all bustling back and forth, ready to create magic. Dom felt ridiculously happy. He knew that he'd be in bed with Bill at midnight, that they'd be doing mutually pleasing things to each other beneath the faded eiderdown, and it was a very good feeling.
"Five minutes, Billy!" shouted Ron, McEnery's assistant, through the door. "Righty-oh," Billy replied. He glanced over at his mate, his lover, his Rosencrantz and felt a swell of pride in the daft Englishman - his daft Englishman.
"Come on, mate," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's make this a night to remember!"
Outside, Ron was waiting; he good-naturedly helped the two actors with the fastenings they couldn't quite reach, and with seconds to spare before their dramatic entrance.
The theatre was buzzing, the sounds of a full house permeating through the safety curtain and into the very pores of Dom and Billy; they experienced the adrenaline rush, the sheer ecstasy that came with performance. This was life, this was.
Assuming position, Billy in front and Dom behind, Dom heard Billy's reassuring "next year, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern -- next year..." and then bent, placing his hands securely about Billy's waist and they were off, Billy leading the way on stage.
There was a tumultuous roar of approval from what could only be scores of small children and accompanying adults. Dom clung on to Billy, ignoring the ache starting to take hold, getting into the swing of things -- quite literally in the case of Daisy the Cow's comic udders.
Despite the heat inside the pantomime costume, the claustrophobic disorienting mustiness, in the dark, relying on Billy to keep them from plummeting from the stage into the orchestra pit -- as had so nearly happened last night - Dom wouldn't have changed it for anything.
After all, any time he was paid to put his arms around Billy, well that was dream job as far as he was concerned.
Jack and the Beanstalk at the Civic Theatre, Smallbrough, wasn't quite Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead at the Vic. But, in its own way it was art, it paid the bills.
And it meant they could be together.
***
Recipient: Cesare (almostnever)
Author: trianne
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG13
Summary: Dom and Billy are in a production together
Pre-reveal Notes: Dom and Billy would be so good in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, it's criminal they haven't done it already...
Post-reveal Notes: Thank you, Elouisa, for the beta
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It was the two of them to a tee. They had been born to play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, courtiers of Denmark - that state wherein there was something decidedly rotten. Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of course, though neither of them ruled out doing the original from the Bard one day. But for now, it was the wit and wonder of Stoppard that appealed to them, big style.
So it was, that Dom sat upon the rickety chair in the wings, opened his dog-eared copy of that very play and began to speak lines silently, his brows drawn down as he concentrated on the sacred text.
His Rosencrantz had to be perfect, nothing less would do. He could do inept and absurd, was rather good at inept and absurd actually. As he read to himself, he smiled at the same phrases he always smiled at, loving the prose and more than a little in love with Mr. Stoppard.
"You know what you're doing this time, Dom?"
The flat, businesslike tones of McEnery, the stage manager, jolted Dom out of his reverie; he closed his book and nodded agreeably.
"Sure, no worries. It's going to be great performance!"
McEnery gave him a suspicious look, muttered something about bums-on-seats and no- repeat-of-last-night's-fiasco, scratched his balls, then snapped, "And where's that mate of yours? He's not going to be late again, is he?"
Guildenstern. Or rather, Billy: the most amazing Guildenstern in the world, the Worcester sauce to Dom's cheese-on-toast; the Fred to his Ginger; the Noel to his Liam...
His face must have assumed the usual soppy look it did when he was thinking of Billy, because he suddenly became acutely aware that McEnery was glaring at him. He aimed for a reassuring tone: "No, no, he won't be late. He's a pro, is Billy. He, he rang me earlier to say he had to pick up a prescription from the chemist for, for something he's got wrong with him, something not contagious I hasten to add, but something quite, quite -- trivial yet at the same time... important," he finished lamely.
McEnery snorted and seemed about to give him an ear bashing but luckily for Dom he spotted someone somewhere doing something not exactly to his liking, and off he shot, his voice already winding itself up into a sarcastic corkscrew of contempt.
Dom hated confrontation. He sagged back into his chair and closed his eyes for a moment.
A voice, familiar, beloved: "I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself."
Dom grinned, resisted the urge to open his eyes, came back with, "Or just as mad."
"Or just as mad."
"And he does both."
"So there you are."
And now Dom did open his eyes, couldn't help himself, stood up and gesticulated expansively, triumphantly recited Rosencrantz's punch line, "Stark raving sane."
Billy winked appreciatively, sat in the chair Dom had just vacated crossing his knees and clasped them like a prim twelve-year-old girl - and waited.
"McEnery was on the warpath again, the stupid-," Dom obliged, though he gave a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear before finishing with "-twat."
Billy sighed. "The McEnerys of this world are limited beings, my friend, bound up in their own petty concerns, not for the likes of us to worry about. What did you tell him, by the way?"
"I told him you had to nip out for some Anusol Cream."
"Thanks mate. I'll return the favour one day," Billy said sweetly. "I got the bet on, it's a cert."
Dom loved the way Billy's breathing quickened when he was really excited, which he was now. If it was the gee gees that did it, well, he could live with that; as long as he didn't have to compete with another bloke... God forbid, oh God forbid.
The pressure of Billy's hand on Dom's thigh certainly excited Dom more than any ruddy racehorse ever could; a clever hand, an insistent hand. "Give us a quick kiss and then I think we should get into costume,"
Billy's voice was -- much to Dom's delight -- now a little husky. He reached up for Dom and pulled him down so their lips met. Billy never cared who saw them like that, who might be passing-by, the idea of being embarrassed by it never even occurred to him. Dom loved that about Billy, among a whole host of other more tangible attributes.
"Guildenstern, this isn't in the play -- either of them," he murmured, giddy with the warmth of Billy's breath on his face, Billy's body so very close.
"That, my dear, is why neither William Shakespeare nor Tom Stoppard will ever amount to anything -- they have no imagination..." Billy couldn't stop himself smirking, pleased with himself, breaking the intimacy. It was just as well, if they were to avoid the wrath of McEnery and be there for their cue on time.
They made their way to their dressing room; theirs was a small theatre in a small provincial town, no budget for fripperies or even for a working bog. But for the last two weeks it had been home.
As they got ready, they could hear the theatre come to life; fellow actors, musicians, prop master, stage hands, all bustling back and forth, ready to create magic. Dom felt ridiculously happy. He knew that he'd be in bed with Bill at midnight, that they'd be doing mutually pleasing things to each other beneath the faded eiderdown, and it was a very good feeling.
"Five minutes, Billy!" shouted Ron, McEnery's assistant, through the door. "Righty-oh," Billy replied. He glanced over at his mate, his lover, his Rosencrantz and felt a swell of pride in the daft Englishman - his daft Englishman.
"Come on, mate," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's make this a night to remember!"
Outside, Ron was waiting; he good-naturedly helped the two actors with the fastenings they couldn't quite reach, and with seconds to spare before their dramatic entrance.
The theatre was buzzing, the sounds of a full house permeating through the safety curtain and into the very pores of Dom and Billy; they experienced the adrenaline rush, the sheer ecstasy that came with performance. This was life, this was.
Assuming position, Billy in front and Dom behind, Dom heard Billy's reassuring "next year, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern -- next year..." and then bent, placing his hands securely about Billy's waist and they were off, Billy leading the way on stage.
There was a tumultuous roar of approval from what could only be scores of small children and accompanying adults. Dom clung on to Billy, ignoring the ache starting to take hold, getting into the swing of things -- quite literally in the case of Daisy the Cow's comic udders.
Despite the heat inside the pantomime costume, the claustrophobic disorienting mustiness, in the dark, relying on Billy to keep them from plummeting from the stage into the orchestra pit -- as had so nearly happened last night - Dom wouldn't have changed it for anything.
After all, any time he was paid to put his arms around Billy, well that was dream job as far as he was concerned.
Jack and the Beanstalk at the Civic Theatre, Smallbrough, wasn't quite Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead at the Vic. But, in its own way it was art, it paid the bills.
And it meant they could be together.
***