Take 512: Act One
Act One
“Madness in great ones must not unwatched go"
William Shakespeare Hamlet
The flyers don't offer much by way of introduction, just some general details and presumptive statements. It matter-of-factly mentions the dates for auditions, that experience in acting isn't necessary, and as an afterthought, that this year's play (adaptation in progress) is Hamlet.
Despite everything, Jared's amused. This was the kind of sketchy and brusque that was basically Kim Manners in a nutshell, which meant that he, at least, had taken last year in his stride. He glances at the casting date again and notices another line, in smaller script like Manners didn't want the wrong people to see it; tech meeting will be held a week beforehand, on the 17th June at the mauve room
Jared falters a little, but ultimately makes it out of the cafeteria without attracting too much attention. His fingers curve like claws around the paper, crumpling it hopelessly.
Outside, the sun is streaming down in torrents. Jared’s feet guide him towards the football field without really thinking, his feet tracing the familiar path. There's a headache building up behind his temples, a dull steady throb that feels somehow off-beat. It started the moment Katie passed him the flyer with a shrug and the proclamation of, "The insanity lives on."
It's a pretty accurate prediction, if Jared's past experience is anything to go by. He thinks, almost hysterically, that insanity was a big part of Shakes. From Manners' cryptic inside language -mauve room, seriously- to Mike's sparks and bangs to the phantasmagorical quality of Jensen's sets, Misha's haunting prose that always manages to capture the magic of the original script, there's nothing rational about the annual Shakespeare drama competition.
As Mike used to sing in that ear-shattering falsetto, I think you're crazy, just like me.
ared has fought so hard for this oasis of normalcy, this little bit of peace that rubbed up against the harder edges inside of him, but it was all that he could reasonably ask for. He had walked out last year, made it out barely alive, worn down to a shadow and ragged at the edges, and promised himself never to go back.
He tells himself this, over and over, on his way to the bleachers, but a moment of unguarded silence as he flops down on the grass lets a voice at the back of his head say, you're not done with Shakes, not even close.
"Wouldn't expect you to know, but the only thing sadder than skipping sixth period sober is skipping sixth period alone," a voice says, and the images in Jared's head dissipate slowly like tendrils of smoke blown away as he blinks. There's a figure leaning over him, a barrier in the relentless flood of sunlight.
Jared blinks again, and the shadow focuses and Mike appears, grinning obscenely down at him. Jared can feel his muscles tense on impulse. It's weird, though, because simultaneously there's a part of him that wants to throw his arms in the air and dance around in circles.
“Get out of my sun, motherfucker,” Jared says with no discomfiture.
“It’s absolutely lovely to see you Mike,” Mike says in a high-pitched southern drawl. “I missed you loads.”
“Go be a pathetic asshole somewhere else.” Jared advises.
There’s a laugh from somewhere behind and the world adjusts a little when Tom walks up to stand beside Mike. The half-forgotten knowledge of years past lets him know why he felt so off-kilter seeing Mike alone; he remembers that TomandMike are a fact of nature, and to see one without the other is unheard of.
“Hey, Jared,” Tom says down at him, and Jared surrenders and sits up. “Long time no see.”
“Lovely to see you, missed you loads,” Jared recites and Mike grins evilly at Tom’s look of confusion, not having heard the first part of their conversation.
He flops down beside Jared and pokes his side.
“You heard, Sasquatch?” Mike says, aiming for casual and falling short. His eyes are fever-bright like they always are, and Jared can never figure out whether it’s speed or just some screwy Mike thing, like his weird obsession with neon and the way he’s constantly popping his thumb in and out of joint. “About Shakes, I mean?”
Jared nods, eyes closed. “I heard.”
It’s silent a while, the distant noises of the school, dull and muted like it’s another planet. Jared hears the quiet thump as Tom sits down on his other side.
“You signing up?”
Jared turns his head to look at Mike. “Not really sure. You?”
Mike shrugs. “Thinking about it. Don’t think they have a whole lot of hope if we don’t show up this year, Padalecki, my friend.”
“No Chad,” Jared points out. “We’ll probably drown without a stage manager.”
Mike shrugs, his eyes slightly surprised, as if at the mention of Chad Murray in casual conversation. “Didn’t stop us last year.”
Jared raises his eyebrows, and Mike concedes, “Okay, so last year was a clusterfuck. We’ll get fucking Manners doing it if we don’t have anyone.”
“Or Katie,” Jared says, more realistically.
“Or Katie.”
Jared turns back to Tom, who has his head tipped back, eyes shut against the sunlight. “What about you, Tommy? Feel like falling for Genevieve again?”
He smirks, not opening his eyes. Tom has been the lead in their regular cast since Jared can remember, and ends up playing the hero falling in love with -or murdering creatively, as was the case in Misha’s sociopath-themed Othello- Genevieve’s heroine.“As long as you don’t dress her up in that ridiculous fairy getup, God.”
“Hamlet,” Jared says contemplatively. “Hard to get a theme on that.”
Mike shrugs. “We’ll probably make it work, Jared. We always do.”
Jared’s not sure how to respond to that. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. So he looks at Mike a little helplessly, until Tom gets the hint and drags his boyfriend away with him.
Fever dreams for a while, the sunlight scorching away the first layer of skin leaving him feeling peeled and bare, broken for the whole world to see. He places a fist over his eye socket and tries not to think of train wrecks and sleeping pills, whole cities engulfed by the sea.
Once the bell rings, Katie falls into step with him easily, punching him sideways in greeting. Jared makes an exaggerated grimace of pain and she calls him a fuckin’ pussy and a year of not meeting each other’s eyes in hallways fades away to nothing.
"Dude. I hear Misha's writing up this epic gay orgy this year." She says conversationally. Katie has this way of talking that makes Jared inevitably think of stoner kids from the nineties, all dragged-out vowels and no punctuation. He'd forgotten. "I finally get to see Tom's ass naked."
Katie's also openly appreciative of the deviant good looks of the cast. Mike predicts that he, she and Tom will one day be part of the greatest threesome ever. Jensen used to counter that Katie probably wouldn’t be interested in listening to Mike and Tom bitch about who gets to bottom all night long.
"So you're signing up this year?" Jared asks, forcibly dragging his mind to the present.
Katie shoots him a look, sharp and incredulous. "Duh."
Jared rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "I mean, after last year..." he trails off.
"Dude, we're Supernatural," she says, gesturing violently, eyes wide. And yeah, Jared's going to find whoever first called them that and deliver the smack they richly deserve, because Supernatural Tech Team? That’s easily above and beyond their average delusions of grandeur.
But he gets her point. How could he not? He's been on that catwalk backstage, seen the wash of the taillights on the material of the costumes like the building blocks of a dream, and heard the swell of the music as the figure at centre stage falls to his knees. They’re all junkies for the other-worldly silence as every piece clicked into place in the dress rehearsals.
That's when something else occurs to him.
"You said Misha was writing the script?-" he looks at her, eyebrows arched. "Thought the fucker didn't want anything to do with us."
She smirks. "Yeah, but that's 'cause Chad drove him over the edge. With Jensen back onboard, Misha's all about caring and sharing. What?"
She adds the last part in a huff of irritation, cocking an eyebrow at Jared, who's stopped dead on the pavement. He can't help it. The ground begins to give out, to duck and weave dangerously.
They did dystopian-themed Twelfth Night in 2005, and Jensen built a backdrop of layers of shimmering blue for the storm, hundreds of parts fitting together in one perfect mechanism. This feels like that: drowning in slow motion, unable to fight or cry out.
"Jensen's back?" He asks, and his voice sounds raw, some bleeding wreck.
A beat passes, and Katie looks stricken. "Christ, you didn't know? I'm a fucking idiot." she shoves her hands in her pockets and squares her shoulders. Jared has a quiet epiphany: she picked up that gesture from him. "Anyway, Manners confirmed. Jensen's officially back on the crew. Shit, man, I'm so sorry, I know-"
"Does Mike know?"
He doesn't know why that's so important. All he clearly remembers is Mike getting him stone drunk the day of the cast party, saying in his ear, we shall overcome, buddy boy.
Katie snorts. "Doubt it. Think he might kick Jen's ass before he even gets one foot in the green room. Fucker never did take kindly to Jensen walking out." She shakes her head, looking amazed. "Jesus, we're fucked up."
Jared agrees. Boy, does he agree.
Jared figures, what with Jeff’s snazzy new job and the onslaught of Megan’s teenage melodrama, his parents will be all too happy to temporarily forget the existence of their middle child. To distant relatives and new friends, he’s written off as the unproblematic and largely independent kid, always has been.
It’s not like he minds. He kind of likes the privacy, the total lack of pressure to make something of himself because his folks are convinced he’ll find his way on his own with no help from them whatsoever.
Hence, the alcohol and the flirtation with substance abuse. He’s just not much good at being ignored when Jensen isn’t around to throw an arm around his shoulders and say, fuck that shit, man, you’re fucking special, blushing slightly as he says it, feeding Jared candy the whole time.
His parents never identified Jensen as the cause of Jared’s swift downward spiral; when he crashed their car last August, they blamed Mike. As far as they’re concerned, Jensen’s still the handsome blonde boy who politely asks whether Jared can come and do homework that night (they used the time to smoke weed) That’s his family’s MO: stand back and judge, and all shall be as it shall be.
But none of that means his momma doesn’t get pangs of guilt and make efforts to reach out. Today it’s in the form of double chocolate cookies when all Jared really needs is to go upstairs and listen to emo rock and experiment with eyeliner.
Still, he knows firsthand how much worse it has the potential to be. There was a time -post Jensen, pre Sandy- when his parents were edgy in his presence, flinching when he spoke like he had claws and sabers for teeth. So he rolls with it.
“Sweetie, how was school?” she asks, passing him a plate of warm cookies. The moment strikes Jared as extremely wholesome and he feels his lunch come back up.
His migraine escalates. In his mind, a drug addict with a magical way with words, Misha fuckin Collins, shouts, it stinks of sitcom in here! “Fine,” he takes the plate and sets it back on the counter. His voice is gritty, and he scrapes the rust from his tone with difficulty. “I mean, it was fine. Nothing interesting.”
She beams. He can see in her eyes how much she wants to ask for details, along with the cold, flat knowledge that she forfeited that right sometime back and is glad everyone concerned got that memo.
“You know,” she says, last-ditch attempt to see his walls come down. “I saw Jensen at the store the other day.”
Jared smiles, all teeth. “That’s nice, Momma.”
So they stick to the superficial, a still-attractive mother asking her handsome young son about his day, and they pretend that he’s not lying through his teeth. He finally leaves the sunny kitchen, makes a break towards the downstairs bathroom and throws up his lunch.
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