by Jerry Cole
"Good luck," he whispered.
"You don't say that backstage," Nick warned him, smiling, "It's bad luck."
"Why?"
"Hell if I know. That's where break a leg comes from. Don't whistle either."
"Is that bad luck too?" Clay raised an eyebrow curiously. Nick nodded.
"Of the very practical kind," he confirmed. "Stage hands use whistles to signal each other. Confuse them and you could end up with a light fixture dropped on your head."
"I suppose I'd better not mention the Scottish play either," Clay said, playful.
"Don't be silly. No one believes in that old superstition," Nick winked and Clay squeezed him tighter, laughing quietly.
The overture was fifteen minutes long, so as they fell quiet they still had a good while to wait. Clay looked out at the dark stage and took a deep, shaky breath.
"You're going to be fine," Nick reminded him. "You've improved spectacularly since you got here. You've memorized all your lines a hundred times over. You don't even say them with an accent anymore. This is going to be no sweat at all."
"I know, I know," Clay nodded, and smiled down at him. "I'll just keep my eyes on you. I'm not worried."
"Even if I'm not on stage?" Nick asked, concerned.
"I just pretend whoever I'm talking to is you," Clay shrugged. "You calm me down."
Nick's heart fluttered, and he looked away, glad the darkness hid his blush.
The music played on as they fell quiet, swelling beyond the curtain as the overture drew to its close. The last frantic tasks were done, and the stage was clear as the overture rolled toward it explosive conclusion. The actors hurried to their marks. The curtains rose to the fanfare of trumpets singing of great heroic deeds and incredible triumphs, slowly drawing away as the house lights lowered and the stage lights rose, illuminating the set, the stage within a stage where the opening scene would take place.
While the curtain rose the actors were frozen, still as dolls. But as the curtain stopped they began to move, shifting and chattering in the fine suits and beautiful dresses of seventeenth century France. The activity was clamorous. Men were fencing, playing cards. A guard escapes with a shop girl to kiss in a corner. All is wild frivolity, until someone announces the arrival of the marquis. Nick patted Clay's back in encouragement as Clay steeled himself for his first scene.
"I'll be out there soon," he promised. "You can do this."
Clay smiled at Nick gratefully, then followed the other actors onto the stage to begin.
Nick watched, holding his breath, as Clay slipped easily into the character of the naive and noble Christian, and delivered his first lines, easily as a seasoned professional. It was such a change from his stiff stammering a month ago that Nick could almost have laughed. Clay had a talent that was undeniable. It wasn't just his face. He was genuinely good at this. Nick hoped regardless of anything else, Clay went on acting. It would be a shame to lose such a talent.
Other characters entered, discussed the absence of Cyrano, who banned Montfleury from performing. Nick took a deep breath, checked to make sure his nose was in place and his hat was pulled down. He drew his cape around him and entered the stage on cue with hardly more of him visible than hat, cape, and that nose jutting out between them. He swept back his cape to reveal himself, proud musketeer with the ridiculous nose and the razor sharp sword, and the audience applauded. Now the play was really begun. Christian left the stage just before Cyrano's entry, but Nick caught Clay's eye where he watched just offstage and smiled. The play went on.
Nicholas felt made of lines. He only existed as himself when he stepped out of the scene, and then only lived to wait for his next entrance. He lived as Cyrano, courageous and blustering and afraid. He barely noticed the audience. He couldn't see them through the stage lights anyway. All that mattered was the next line, the next scene. He was Cyrano, long nosed poet, and he was in love.
Clay was marvelous. Nick could have recited poetry to him all day, and Clay as Christian turned it back on him with ease. As they stood beneath Roxanne's balcony and Cyrano professed his love, pretending to be Christian who stood in the dark beside him, it was a struggle not to look at Clay, to say those words to him. In the euphoria of the scene, it seemed like there was no better way to tell the other man. He needed poetry and songs to move the ages. He would become Shakespeare if it made Clay like him better. But he doubted it would. Clay liked him as he was, dramatic and silly and given to pretension. Clay preferred more honest statements. When Christian sat beside Roxanne and told her, in his own words, not Cyrano's borrowed ones, “I love you,” he said it with all the earnest, simple feeling he possessed, and was perplexed by her refusal. For a man like Christian or like Clay, to gild the honest truth of love in fantastic phrases was to make it less pure. Nicholas admired without reservation his ability to state his feelings without an ounce of misdirection. He wished he had that bravery. To sit beside someone and tell them, with not a single condition or caveat, no bribes or pretty persuasions, “I love you.” Just that naked truth and nothing more.
The play rolled on, and Nick could take his eyes from Clay no more than Clay could take them from him. Nicholas nearly found himself in tears by Christian's death scene.
"Did you tell her?" Christian begged Cyrano as he lay dying.
"I did," Cyrano lied, holding his friend's hand tightly. "I told her. She loves you!"
Roxanne fell at Christian's other side and they held him together as, without another word, he died in their arms, happy in his last moments by Cyrano's kind lie, believing Roxanne knew his words had always been Cyrano's and she chose to love him anyway. And Cyrano, doomed by his kindness, could now never tell the truth and risk tarnishing Christian's memory in the mind of his widow.
There was an intermission directly after that scene. There wasn't much of the play left on the other side, but the time jump that would follow it required a break to have the right impact. The band played through the intermission as the guests stood to stretch their legs and visit the concession stand or the restroom. Behind the curtain, the crew scrambled to get everything ready for the next scene. Nicholas threw his arms around Clay as soon as they were off the stage, laughing triumphantly.
"You were magnificent!" he crowed, holding the other man by the shoulders. "I nearly cried! Clayton Allan, you are a wonder!"
Clay chuckled, blushing as he looked away, modesty as attractive on him as nearly everything else.
"Ah I don't know," he chuckled. "I think I could have done better. I lost my lines a couple of times..."
"Everyone does," Nick reassured him. "That's why there are people in the wings to feed them to you. You'll only improve. And considering this is your starting point, I can't wait to see what you'll become. You could be one of the greats, Clay."
"Don't get my hopes up," Clay laughed, shaking his head.
"No, seriously," Nicholas insisted, catching Clay's eye and smiling encouragingly. "I love acting with you. I want to watch you perform for the rest of my life."
"Hey, Nick," a stage hand interrupted before Clay could reply. "There are some guests here that say they're your parents."
"I'll be right there," Nick called back, and pulled away from Clay.
"See you in a minute," he said, waving goodbye. Clay waved back, his expression far away, but Nick was too preoccupied to notice.
So his parents had come to the show after all. Was that a good sign or a bad one? He didn't know what to prepare himself for.
They were waiting near the side entrance to the stage, and Nick hurried to greet them, staying behind the curtain.
"I'm glad you came," he said earnestly. "What did you think?"
"You were incredible, honey," his mom said at once. "I saw those fencing lessons finally paid off!"
"You're always fantastic, son," his father assured him. "We'd never miss one of your shows."
"So, then, what we talked about before..." his heart squeezed hopefully in his chest, wanting their approval
even if he didn't need it.
"Let's not talk about that," his dad said quickly, laughing it off. "Tonight is all about your show. Let's focus on that."
"I kind of think it needs to be talked about," Nick felt disappointment beginning to settle like a weight on his chest.
"No, I think your father is right,” his mother quickly interceded. "We really said all we needed to say about it, so let's just move on and—"
"And pretend it didn't happen?" Nick finished for her.
"No," his dad, on the defensive, put his arm around his wife. "That wasn't what she said. There's just no need to dwell on it. You told us what you needed to, so let's just move on. How about that Raganeau guy, huh? What a card!"
His mother and father chattered about the play for a few minutes longer, and Nick nodded along. At least they still wanted to be part of his life. It could be a lot worse after all. But it still hurt they'd rather be in denial, living in a microcosm of “Don't Ask, Don't Tell,” than just talk to him about it. It could be worse, he told himself again, then excused himself, saying he needed to go get ready for his next scene.
He did need to go get ready. He had a whole costume and makeup change to go through. But instead he stumbled off to the prop room. He just needed to sit and be alone for a minute. He'd be fine, and he wouldn't ruin his makeup, and he'd go on with the play and—
"Nick?"
Nicholas had only just let the prop room door close behind him, his face in his hands, when he heard Clay’s voice behind him.
"I'm fine," he said without turning around, his voice hoarse. "I just need a minute to relax. I have to be on stage in another couple of minutes so I really can't—"
His words stopped in his throat as he felt Clay's arms wrap around him from behind, holding him to Clay's broad chest.
"Those were your parents, huh?" Clay asked quietly. "I didn't listen in. But I've known you long enough to see whatever they said upset you."
"It's complicated," Nick didn't move, afraid to disrupt this moment. Clay's arms were warm and reassuring in the semi-dark of the prop room.
"Whatever it is, you'll get through it," Clay promised. "And when the play is over, if you want, you can talk to me about it. You're the best friend I have in this city. It hurts me to see you torn up like you've been the past few days. I know you probably thought I didn't notice but, seeing you hurting..."
He squeezed Nicholas tighter, and Nick's heart skipped a beat.
"I can't stand it."
"Thank you," Nick said quietly, not sure how else to respond, afraid he was reading more into this than Clay meant. "We should both probably get back to it."
He shifted, and Clay loosened his arms just enough for Nick to turn and face him before pulling him close again, hugging him tightly. Nick, his face buried in Clay's shoulder, slowly returned the embrace, putting his arms around Clay's back. What was this to Clay, he wondered? Was it something brotherly? Platonic, familial comfort? Was that all he felt right now?
"I'm here for you," Clay said, so close Nick could feel the other man's breath on his ear, hot and tingling. "Whatever you're going through, you don't have to do it alone. I want to help you. I want to..."
He trailed off, having difficulty finding his words. Nick lifted his head to meet Clay's eye, mesmerized by the intensity there, the sharpness of a need he couldn't define. He was moving before he was really aware of it, pressing his lips to the other man's.
Clay's mouth was frozen with surprise for a moment, but it softened quickly. Clay pulled Nick tighter against him, the full length of their bodies against one another as Nick, slow and cautious, deepened the kiss and Clay, heated and urgent, accepted it, his tongue hot against Nick's lips. If kissing Damien had been like fireworks, then this was a volcanic eruption. Nicholas' lips tingled and his skin flushed with heat at once, aching for touch. Clay's hands on his back through the fabric of his costume were a cruel tease, but Nick could hardly think clearly enough to contemplate undressing, or anything other than continuing this kiss.
"Nick!" Someone was shouting outside the prop room. "Nick, we needed you in makeup five minutes ago!"
Clay shoved Nick away at once, the kiss breaking so suddenly Nicholas was left dazed and confused.
"Sorry," Clay blurted out, then hurried out of the prop room before Nick could say anything else. Nick shook his head and just barely gathered himself before one of the stage hands opened the prop room door and found him.
"Come on!" the man said, dragging Nick out. "We're going to run late if we don't get you in makeup right now! Why haven't you changed costumes yet?"
Nick couldn't answer, his thoughts entirely too preoccupied with Clay. Clay kissed him. Well, technically Nick kissed Clay in a moment of stress induced madness, but still! Clay kissed back, had held him. There was a chance, and a pretty good one it seemed like, that Nick's confession wouldn't be in vain after all.
He pulled on his costume and drifted into makeup in a daze, still thinking about that kiss, playing it over and over in his mind. What if it had just been a spur of the moment thing, a brief lapse of judgement? Clay got out of there pretty fast afterwards. Whatever, Nick told himself. It was hope, and more hope than he had in a little bit, so he was going to hang on to it.
The tragic finale of Cyrano began and Nick snapped himself back into character, forcing thoughts of Clay from his mind. Christian, dead, was not in the rest of the play, and that made it a bit easier to focus as Cyrano, having offended the Comte de Guiche one too many times, was murdered in a most shameful way. It was his vanity that killed him in the end. He was lured into the street by a beggar shouting insults about his nose and was run down by a cart. It was not the noble death a man like Cyrano deserved, but it was nonetheless appropriate. Still clinging to life, he was taken to a doctor, who warned him not to move lest it kill him. But Cyrano, having promised to visit Roxanne every day since Christian's death, refused to break that promise. He dragged himself, dying, to where he would meet Roxanne, and his lie was finally revealed.
"Live!" Roxanne begged him. "Live, for I love you!"
But Cyrano, her love achieved, could not obey. Delirious with pain and fever, he stood and drew his sword, and dueled the phantom of death as it came to take him.
"I can see him there!" he cried, pointing his foil into nothing. "He grins. He is looking at my nose, that skeleton! What's that you say? Hopeless? Why, very well! But a man does not fight merely to win! No! No, better to know one fights in vain!"
Cyrano stumbled, and Nicholas looked out into the audience, waving his foil at them.
"You there!" he shouted at the crowd. "Who are you? A hundred against one, eh? I know them now, my ancient enemies!"
He stumbled again, staggered, but recovered swiftly, his sword gleaming and a snarl on his face.
"Falsehood! There! There!" Cyrano struck and slashed at the air as he named his opponents. "Prejudice, compromise, cowardice! What's that? No! Surrender? No! Never! Ah, you too, Vanity! I knew you would overthrow me in the end."
He laughed, and nearly fell, landing on his sword to support him. For a moment it looked like he would collapse, but slowly he drew back to his feet.
No! I fight on!" he rasped, his attacks slowing, his steps less sure. "I fight on! I fight on!"
He stumbled to a stop, and his sword fell to his side. He tipped his head up toward the sky.
"Yes, all my laurels you have driven away," he said slowly, resignation in his voice. "And all my roses. Yet in spite of you there is one crown I bear away with me. And tonight, when I enter before God, my salute shall sweep all the stars away from the blue threshold! One thing without stain, unspotted from the world, in spite of doom mine own! And that is..."
Roxanne and the other witnesses to his grand death stared in suspense at his last moments.
"That is..." Roxanne asked, hoping for what answer no one could know.
In reply, Cyrano swept off his hat with its pure white feather and held it to his heart.
"My white plume..." he said, and fell, dead.
The curtains fell after him, and the music swelled as the band played them out. Thunderous applause erupted from beyond the fallen curtain as the audience roared their approval nearly loud enough to drown out the band. A moment later Nicholas, along with Clay and Charlotte, hurried out in front of the curtain to take their final bows. The other named characters followed, and finally the curtain rose on the full cast, and all the while the cheers didn't stop. Nick's heart soared on wings of applause. They had done it. The Green Carnation would blossom again. Dizzy with happiness, he smiled in Clay's direction, but the other man was still looking out at the crowd, waving shyly.
After the bows there were cast photos to be taken and invitations to after parties to be politely declined—they had a show again tomorrow night after all—and then he reported to makeup to get the damnable nose removed. Finally, all the guests were gone and all that remained was to break down the sets for the night and reset everything for tomorrow. Nicholas always stayed to help with this part and privately thought poorly of actors that didn't stay to help with clean up. He was certain Clay stayed, but he kept just missing the other man. They mentioned talking after the show, so he should have been waiting somewhere, but Nick couldn't seem to find him. Maybe he was in the lobby, Nick wondered. After that kiss he surely hadn't just left. His hopes were dancing on the roof as he carried an armload of props back to the prop room. He would understand if Clay wanted to take it slow. After all they both thought they were straight until relatively recently. They could have a celebratory dinner tonight, and then tomorrow they—
The prop room door was open and Nick could hear breathless moans coming from the darkness beyond it. He wasn't surprised. It wasn't uncommon after the rush of emotions from a successful performance. But in the prop room, really? Didn't they know people were trying to—
He stepped forward, planning to push open the door and shame the lovebirds into finding a more private place to celebrate, when he recognized the couple, bent over the Comte de Guiche's desk. Renee's red hair spilled out on the desk around her like blood and tangled around Clay's fingers. Nick didn't feel his heart break. It wasn't there anymore. He put the props he was returning down beside the door as quietly as he could and hurried away. He didn't feel hurt. He felt absolutely nothing.
