Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We scattered from the centre of the room, which erupted in applause as Meredith ascended the stairs to the balcony again. I hovered at the edge of the crowd, watching her feet on the steps until she was gone, then turned to the nearest reveler--a boy, I didn't know who, only his brown eyes were visible through the holes in his mask--and said, "O, where is Romeo?"  to another spectator, "Saw you him today? / Right glad I am he was not at this fray." 

At exactly that moment, Romeo emerged from a door on the east wall, clad all in blue and silver, his mask gently curving back toward his temples. He seemed almost a mythical figure, Ganymede, caught beautifully between man and boy. I knew it would be James, had guessed as much, but his appearance was no less affecting.

"See, where he comes."  I said, to the girl nearest me, in a softer tone. That strange possessive pride washed over me again. Everyone in the room was watching James--how could they not?--but I was the only one who really knew him, every inch. "So please you, step aside: / I'll know his grievance or be much denied. / Good morrow, cousin!"

James looked up, looked right at me. He seemed surprised to see me standing there, though I didn't know for the life of me why he should be. Was I not always his right-hand man, his lieutenant? Banquo or Benvolio or Oliver--little difference.

We argued lightly about his unrequited love, a game emerging wherein I blocked his way each time he tried to leave, attempted to evade my questions. He was content to play along until at last he said, more firmly. "Farewell, my coz."  

"Soft!"  I said. "I will go along; / An if you leave me so, you do me wrong." 

"Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; / This is not Romeo, he's some other where."

He turned to go and I darted around to bar his path again. My desire to keep him there had, at some point, transcended the alignment of an actor's motivation and his character's. I desperately wanted him to stay, seized by the nonsensical idea that if he left, I would lose him, irretrievably. "Tell me in sadness, who is that you love,"  I said, searching the parts of his face I could see for a flicker of reciprocal feeling. 

A sadness in his eyes left me, for a moment, thinking that maybe he felt the same. For whatever reason this had overcome the both of us, I had not to know. A few beats of my heart passed before it finally struck in my mind that James hadn't said his line. The usual confidence--that unmistakable nature of a protagonist--it seemed, for a moment, to switch off. 

"You."

I thought I heard him speak at first, and I'm starting to worry. It's not like James to be like this, to stumble over his words during a final performance. It looked like he was purely infatuated with my own presence, as if I didn't belong here. No.. No it wasn't that I didn't belong here. It was that he wished I wasn't here.

"It's you."

It's unmistakeable this time. He definitely spoke. And I heard it. James, what are you doing. "..What?"

I felt as though I was exposed. Like I had been stripped of all my clothing and forced to stand in here in front of this crowd--in front of James--with everything on display. I haven't a clue what's going through his head, but I want to understand. I crave that knowledge.

"Oliver."

He says my name as though it's a slur, an obscenity to never once be uttered from his own mouth. It should've never left those beautifully painted lips. Not now, not ever. It hurt me to hear him say my name that way, in a way I never thought that he could ever make me hurt. I'm ready to try and save the scene, to just skip ahead a few lines and hope that maybe James would drift back into character. Into Romeo. But I'm just as frozen as the rest of this confused crowd that surround us in this moment. A moment that felt so sickingly intimate that it felt like James had reached his fingers deep into my ribcage, tore a hole through the flesh, just to reach out to my heart and feel it dance and drum against those delicate fingertips. My face was burning up beneath the mask and I just hoped and prayed to whatever's above that my mask covered enough of my skin to not let it be known to anyone.

Oh thank god Alexander is here to save the day..

Alexander steals the attention of everyone in the crowd with his booming voice from a balcony, or apparently enough of the crowd for James to grab onto my forearm and drag me away. Well, not necessarily drag. I gladly follow him when he lightly tugs at my arm in another direction. I follow him out in silence until I'm sure that whatever it was that happened earlier, that intimacy that struck my core, it wouldn't be seen again. Not by another peeping eye, anyway.

We walk just for a moment before I reluctantly tear my arm from his tight grip, we are far enough from the others that we wouldn't be heard.

"James," I start, cautious on how I want to take this. "What the hell was that? "

"I'm sorry."

I can tell he's not, it's obvious in the way he says it. As though it's just something that was necessary to say, not something he truly wished to say. Something was wrong, and I felt fear grip me down. Like gravity had switched on me and started pulling me to the ground. 

"What's wrong with you?" Oh god that didn't come out in the way I wanted it too. I can tell James didn't expect that either by the way his eyes widen behind that mask. "No, no. I mean.. Just--What's wrong. You don't.. seem okay."

James just stood for a moment, a mannequin, a statue, until finally he lifted his mask up, setting it to just stay atop his head at his hairline. Now I could see the tears building.

And you must be a fool if you believe that I'd hesitate to pull him into a hug.

"James.. James, please.. speak to me.."

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

What? "Yes, I did hear what you said. It just didn't make sense. All you said was 'you' and then my name." My face unsticks itself from his jugular, looking down at him and keeping my hands around his waist and keeping our bodies close. It felt like my blood was flowing right out my fingers into the small of his back, where his previously neat clothing had ridden up slightly from me pulling him into that embrace.

"I was answering your question."

"Question? I didn't--" oh. Yes I did. "Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?"  I ask him once more, except this time it's Oliver asking. There is a difference between me, Banquo and Benvolio. I see that now.

"Yeah, that one." He responds, his lips curling up into a smile.

Me. It was me. Oliver. The Banquo to his Macbeth, the Benvolio to his Romeo, no. The Oliver to his James. That's what we were. "You love me?"

James seems quizzed by the question, as if he hadn't just answered me moments before. Like it was a new script he had yet to learn. I'm scared that maybe I misread it, that maybe he meant something else. But surely enough, he answers: "I'm sorry." Only this time, its genuine. He means it. He's sorry.

"What is there to be sorry about? You-- It's not--" God why am I even speaking?

I throw my mask to the ground and grab his face, pulling it to meet mine half way before my lips are crashing to his. The Pacific and Atlantic Ocean, waves meshing together. Except I know that analogy is wrong, because we do mix. We always have. He pulls back for just a second to recover the breath he lost when he made a surprised noise into my mouth, before returning his lips back to where they rightfully deserved to be. It was gentle, at first, a caution and fear that this could be wrong. Until it merged into something more desperate, like we were both realizing this was as normal and healthy as breathing oxygen.

God, James was my oxygen in that moment.

My tongue pries between his lips, but I don't use much force. I seem to not need to as James willingly allows it in, his own tongue sliding against mine like he had known how to do it all along. It wouldn't surprise me, he seems a natural in most things. Eventually, oxygen becomes more of a necessity and we break apart; I'd rather we kept going, but I'd end up passing out. I look into those silver, honey ringed eyes of his and they're looking right back at me.

"James."

"Oliver."

It was as if the same thing was on our minds at the exact same time, like a telepathic communication between us as I glance back to where we had previously been, and he does just the same.

"I don't want to go back right now. Gwendolyn might just kill me." James mutters almost absently, keeping a gaze on the people and the lights, before I'm turning it back to me.

"Alexander covered for you. I hope."

James's worried expression seems to continue, unwavering. If anything, it gets worse after I say that.

"But.. Oliver I still need to finish my scenes."

I know what he means by that. He still needs to kiss Wren. Still needs to be Romeo to the Juliet that people will actually accept. Not to me, though. 

Why would I think any differently?

Chapter Text

James finished that scene, we both finished that entire performance. I left afterwards, obviously. I couldn't bear to look at anyone. Especially not him. 

Who am I kidding? The one I couldn't bear looking at was myself. What the hell have I done?

The one thing Im glad that happened was that we went away from the audience to do that. James was right, we aren't supposed to do anything like that. Not that he out right said it, but I could tell what he was thinking by that look in his eyes. That regretful look.. 

His eyes were like mine.

Just as they are now, in fact. The mirror stares back at me with a mocking sheet of condensation from the steam of the boiling shower I'm running. Hiding my reflection. Ridding myself of the ability to even see my features that paint nothing but a wreck of regret.

I've done it to myself. All this. Every last part of this is my fault.

I've convinced myself I'm the sidekick, that I help the hero get what he wants and needs. All I've done is get in the way. All I've ever done is be a nuisance. 

I run a hand over my face, scrubbing the hatred around until I find my legs collapsing beneath me and I'm just kneeling there. A begging low-class peasant praying for forgiveness. My hands work as shields for my face, keeping the world from me. It isn't sweat dripping down my face from the steam anymore. I curl over myself; my fingers climb up to my hair and my forehead meets the floor with none of the force that it truly should have. Clutching, crashing, cracking as my eyes squeeze shut.

Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying. 

But I don't. I can't. It's started and he's been waiting so long to break his dam, it just doesn't stop and I flood. I drown. The room is too hot, too much, too fast. My lungs are clenching, or is that my own hands against my stomach? Probably a bit of both. All I know is that I cant breathe and my skin feels too tight. The surface area too small for such a large.. Thing.

Why am I waiting for James? Why am I hoping he opens the door and finds me? Like this. Like I truly am. Why him? 

God, why him?