Sojourns of a Glass Tower [ part one ]
[Title] Sojourns of a Glass Tower
[Fandom] Pandora Hearts
[Characters] Jack Vessalius, Glen Baskerville, and appearances by the rest of the Pandora Hearts cast
[Warnings] None
[Summary] AU, canon continuation in the vaguest sense; A man is cast as Ophelia, and Glen just has to deal.
[Dedication] Numi_Nami, for the PH gift exchange of 2011
So this got really long, really, really quickly. Part one is here, part two is coming. This is for Nums for the Pandora Hearts exchange, because the lolirony tends to work like that. And because this is the only pairing I ship in PH and thus is the only pairing I can't do justice and bawww I'm sorry Nums ;A;.
This is a modern-day AU with a lot of references to Hamlet, the reason which will become extremely apparently extremely quickly. It also features a little violence in the second part. I-I hope this is okay, Nums o/;;;;
Sojourns of a Glass Tower
♚ ♛ ♞
Once upon a time, there was a box at the end of the universe.
Once upon a time, that box was opened. From that box came an outward wash of amnesia. From a box, came an eternal night.
Within the night, there was light.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized what he thought was ‘light’ wasn’t really light at all.
♚ ♛ ♞
A man was cast for the role of Ophelia.
It was nearly unheard of, for a role like this in an industry like this, especially in an era with buxom ladies decorating every other billboard pinned row upon row on rooftops and other incredibly conspicuous and often highly inappropriate places. They were reassured repeatedly and profusely by Reim Lunettes, secretary and general affairs manager of the man who was more or less the sponsor of the Pandora Project, that the man in question was more than suitable for the role, and with a little hair and makeup and some padding in the right places you wouldn’t even notice the difference. He’ll be in today, the man promised, five-o’clock sharp. There was a moment as the man glanced quickly over to where he was standing, still fiddling with the frames of his glasses nervously, conveying a plea that wasn’t so much discreet as it was caught by just about every other member of the troupe - you will be working with him closely; please, please, please be there. That was how he later found himself watching with mild curiosity as the bespectacled man strode into the dressing room with hurried steps and wrung his hands like they were sodden wash cloths.
When it became clear that there as a distinct lack of body following him, their Laertes, young Elliot Nightray, heir to a hideous fortune and overwhelming temper, made a sound of utmost discontent and slung his rapier over his shoulder.
“Well?” He demanded, tapping the scabbard with characteristic impatience. “It’s a quarter past five. Even he’s here.” At this point, several pairs of eyes glanced over to where he was leaning nonchalantly against the frame of a painted backdrop, which he ignored pointedly. “Where is he?”
Reim cringed and tried not to look piteous.
“He should be here.” The man admitted, pushing up his glasses nervously. “The plane was due for arrival three hours ago. He was supposed to take a taxi directly from the airport. We even paid the taxi in advance. I don’t understand how anything could have gone wrong.”
“Contact him, then.” The short-tempered man demanded, punctuating his words with a swing of his rapier in annoyance. “Phone him, whatever. Get him to hurry it up so we can start reviewing the next scenes already.”
“Someone seems impatient.” Came the sudden and rather familiar drawl. Eyes turned to the blond-haired man sitting at the dressing table; chin propped on his hand. He sat up, and turned to look at the group primly, mismatched eyes thoughtful under heavy lids. “Could it be that our young Laertes have more pressing concerns than the introduction of our dear Ophelia?”
The ‘what sort of brother are you, now’ was left mostly unsaid, but knowing Vincent Nightray, it was heavily implied and he probably implied it in all sorts of wrong ways. The younger Nightray, to his credit (or perhaps he simply didn’t pick up on it, which was the likelier scenario), merely huffed in annoyance, and rolled his eyes in a childish fashion. “I have better things to do than waiting.”
“What, then?” Came the mild rejoinder and an amused lilt to the voice. “A pressing engagement? A recent booking at a love hotel? Do tell, we are most curious.”
“You--” The indignant response was quickly muffled when their other bespectacled member laid a hand upon the young Nightray heir’s shoulder, he noted, effectively muffled his explosive temper. Reo pushed his glasses up, and looked to Elliot with all the patience of a parent who is used to their child’s hands permanently stuck in the cookie jar.
“Your impatience really was uncalled for.” Was his quiet remark, lifting his hand from Elliot’s shoulder and clasping it behind his back neatly. “You know how traffic can get this time of the day, especially on the highway. Really, what would you expect them to say to him, even if they did contact him, especially if it’s a traffic jam?”
“Hell if I know.” Came Elliot’s annoyed reply as he reached to pat down his shoulder gingerly, as though brushing off imaginary dust. “Do I look like I care about excuses? Get him to hurry the hell up. And just who the hell needs a shitty Ophelia that doesn’t even know how to get to rehearsal on time? Tell him that if he doesn’t get here in the next fifteen minutes, he’s fired.”
“Ah!” There was a cheerful gasp from next to the costume rack. He watched on as the golden-haired Vessalius walked forward with a smile and a spring in his steps, innocent smile plastered all over his face like so much decorative icing. In his hands he held the Hamlet script, bound in gold foil and labeled such in fancy, Victorian-esque text font that probably gave Monotype Corsiva a run for its money. He flipped through the bound script absently as he spoke, the sound of the fluttering of pages a constant background. “I didn’t know that Elliot had administrative rights like that! If I’d known sooner, maybe I would’ve asked for a residence that faces the beach and better air-conditioning. God knows I really need both right now.”
Elliot, as expected, was less than pleased by this intrusion. He proceeded to express his displeasure by lifting a finger and pointing it vehemently. “Don’t get so friendly with me, Vessalius! And who the hell asked you, anyway? If you don’t have anything to contribute, then you should just shut the hell up!”
“Gentlemen--” Reim began hesitantly, only to be cut off decisively by a wayward pout.
“My air conditioner did break, though, so it is relevant.” Oz was saying, his features twisted into a perplexed façade, the sort of innocence found only on three-year olds and encyclopedia salesmen. “They don’t call it summer for nothing. Even you’d have to agree.”
“Shut up!” And here, he could see Reo with his hand, reaching for that shoulder once again, but the young Nightray brushed it off like so much lint. From the sidelines, he could see the amusement crawling up the elder Nightray’s face as he turned to face the mirror like a bouquet of ivy. So much ivy that any more, he mused, and it would have flowered. “Quit joking around, Vessalius! It’s your sister that’s being replaced! Just try telling me that you don’t have a thing or two to say about that. Just try it --”
“Elliot.” Reo began, insistent. And if Oz Vessalius’ smile seemed to waver by the corners of his mouth, it was just the lighting.
“It isn’t like that, Elliot.” The golden-haired man laughed a little, hands poised above the face of the script. “And besides, it wasn’t like Elliot and Ada were getting along anyway. It’s for the best this way--”
The rapier suddenly met the floor with a resounding crash. “Are you implying that it’s my--”
“I’m not! But I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be so upset, since--”
“Upset? Upset? Who the hell are you calling upset? I dare you to say that again, you bastard! Bastard!” Immediately, the room was thrown into relative chaos as the younger Nightray lunged at the Vessalius, fists clenched and putting his set of lungs to good use, held back only by a staggering Reo. To the side, Vincent Nightray yawned, and slipped from his seat, sidling towards the door nonchalantly as Reim hurried into the room, throwing himself between the one-sided fist-match with panic born of pure experience.
When Oz Vessalius looked as though he really was going to say it again (and louder, more forcibly than what Elliot’s arteries would have been able to take), he decided that perhaps the elder Nightray had read the situation appropriately, and thus followed suit -- slipping out of the door as voices rose behind him.
♚ ♛ ♞
It wasn’t so much of a dream as it was a feeling.
Within the light, there was flaxen gold, spun like silk.
Within the flaxen gold, there was the glint of a blade.
The blade was dyed red.
♚ ♛ ♞
It was a surprise that when he opened the door to his private dressing room, the couch was already occupied.
Closing the door behind him quietly, he ignored the lump of blankets sprawled over red satin, and made his way to the dressing table. As he sat down and pulled the script from its customary bag, the pile of blankets stirred. He ignored it until it began to speak.
“Who’re you?” The voice was slightly slurred from sleep, gentle tenor that suggested a man, or perhaps a woman with a low vocal range. The rustle of blankets suggested that the person had risen from the couch, and was most likely boring holes into his back.
The yawn that punctuated the question implied that the person was not yet completely awake, but he had the feeling that the person in question was rarely completely lucid in the first place.
He flipped another page. “This is my dressing room.”
A pause, and there was a chuckle. “I’m sorry, but... that doesn’t quite tell me who you are.”
The chuckle, he decided, was an annoying sound. “Glen Baskerville.”
“Ah!” A hint of recognition seemed to permeate the other’s remark. He heard rather than felt the approach, the slide of fabric as the other slid off of the couch, the soft padding of steps as the other came to stand by his left. “You’re the one cast as Hamlet.”
He didn’t bother to reply. The silence stretched on into the realm of the awkward until the other took it as an affirmative (when in reality, he was calculating the dry cleaning costs of the blankets that had no doubt slipped to the floor upon the other’s rising), and leaned down as though to fill it through sheer willpower. From his peripheral vision, he could see the ends of a long, blond braid, curled on the dressing table like a perfect question mark. “Isn’t it your turn to ask?”
“You are the one who is to play the role of Ophelia.” The lack of patience in his tone seemed to have been lost in translation, for the other merely laughed.
“Yes, but, that doesn’t quite tell you who I am.”
The laughter, he decided, was not much better. Turning in his chair, he faced the other and studied him quietly. A blond-haired man smiled back genially, hair mussed and shirttails hanging -- unkempt appearance pointing to the spontaneous nature of the nap. He waved, lightheartedly, and looked to him with an expectant look found only on newborn puppies and naked, baby birds.
“You may leave.” He murmured, turning. And he wasn’t entirely surprised when the other merely laughed it off. There was a shift of cloth, and their Ophelia rested himself on the table, kicking his legs in mid-air with childish exuberance.
“Jack Vessalius.” Came the reply, cheerful, almost as though he had, indeed, heard, but had heard something else all together than a polite request of his leave. And when no reply from the other was forthcoming, he pressed on. “It’s true that one of my main motivations for accepting this job was because my nephew was on the cast listing. I don’t get to see him perform often, so I thought this would be a good chance to reconnect. The play being Hamlet was a bonus too, since it was one of my favorites from the folios.”
He wasn’t sure why he responded.
“You are replacing your niece.”
There was a slight pause before Jack spoke again. The soft tenor grew softer. “I couldn’t replace her. That’s why I play Ophelia.”
The statement made very little sense to him. Flipping his script book closed, he turned around again to meet the eyes of the other. Jack smiled back, leaning, braid thick as rope and smile wrought with secrets. “I haven’t heard of you.”
There was amusement when the blond-haired man replied. “On the other hand, you're rather infamous.”
He smirked. “I did not know that the Vessalius had a third son.”
And he was duly surprised when the other’s smile curved. It was enough, in hindsight, to wipe the smirk off of his face when Jack Vessalius tilted his head and delivered half the message with fathomless eyes.“Ah, well, I suppose there are many things you don’t know about the Vessalius.”
When he did not reply, the other man merely leaned back against the mirror, reflection every bit as idyllic. “But since you’re here, it means that the meeting’s over, isn’t it? It’s a little late, but I wonder if I should go and report in anyway.”
Glen Baskerville raised a delicate eyebrow. “That, is none of my concern.”
And in response, the other merely nodded contemplatively, as though taking Glen’s off-handed comment entirely seriously. “I suppose you’re right. It isn’t.” A shuffle, and he slid off of the desk, passing Glen by entirely as he made his way towards the door. “But I will, anyway.”
His gloved hand touched the door lightly when he turned again, smile radiant. “I look forward to working with you.”
The door opened on unseen hinges. Jack Vessalius slipped out and was gone.
♚ ♛ ♞
Their first rehearsal ended in distaste.
If Shakespeare had intended for King Claudius to skewer Ophelia with a large and pointy stage prop sometime during the beginning of act three, Glen mused sardonically, he was free to speak up. As it stood now, their Claudius, Vincent Nightray, seemed to have spent a considerable amount of time beforehand thinking up new and exciting ways to ensure that Jack Vessalius could not make his way across the mock-stage unscathed, and his efforts didn’t go unnoticed. However, it wasn’t until the goblet of wine ‘accidentally’ upended itself over Jack’s head that anyone found enough courage to speak up on it.
“Mister Vincent,” He overheard Reim Lunettes as he approached the man with the mismatched eyes who had been fixing his prop earrings by the dressing table with a sated air. “It’s come to my attention that-I mean, I beg your pardon, but… is something amiss?”
The man in question blinked. “It isn’t very nice, to come to someone with the intention of accusing them.”
Reim visibly reddened. “Ah, well. Mister Vincent, I--”
The other merely yawned. “Perhaps you can put your time you’ve wasted pointing fingers to better use by bringing relief to our unfortunate Ophelia. I don’t think he has realized that his hair is beginning to discolor.”
At this, Reim blanched. Glen watched as Jack, who had been dripping wine across the carpet cheerfully, visibly perked up when the bespectacled man came hurtling across the room with a towel. Reo, who had been standing nearby and sipping tea sedately, spoke up as he refilled Glen’s teacup with grace of someone who was very, very used to pouring tea. “I wonder what sort of grudge it’s supposed to be.”
Vincent Nightray, thought Glen, was the sort of man who could make a grudge out of anything. He considered saying so, but decided that it didn’t particularly need verbalization; Reo, who read thoughts almost as easily as he poured tea, merely smiled and set the teapot down soundlessly. “There’s only one person who could have made it so blatant, isn’t it?”
Reo then left with a brief apology that wasn’t apologetic so much as it was out of formality’s sake when Elliot jammed his prop rapier into the trunk of a prop tree while swinging it at an unduly amused Oz, and couldn’t get it unstuck again. He took with him the breath of idyllic silence that he carried with him like a cloud even when he spoke; as soon as he vacated, Jack wandered over smelling of rich, dark wine and a towel on his head.
“At least it wasn’t the whole bottle.” For someone who had been shoved off stage, staged to step on a prop rake pointy end first and had a glass of wine upended over his head within the last half hour, he was taking it rather well. “1895, Italian Piedmont. It’s a good vintage, but not really a cheap one.” At this, his contemplative look turned rueful. “I wonder if Mister Lunettes would let me have the bottle, if I asked. I mean, really asked.”
“Rufus Barma is a well-known wine connoisseur. One bottle is negligible” Glen lifted his tea, saucer and all, and sipped it. Frowned. Jasmine did not mix well with the excessive fragrance of Italian Piedmont that wafted incessantly. He considered asking for the other to leave, but remembered how much of an effect that had the first time, and did the intelligent thing by removing himself instead.
Unfortunately, to his distaste, the blond-haired man padded after him obliviously. “Are you speaking that from experience? Or is it just conjecture?” And when Glen turned to give the other a most unamused look, he merely laughed. “I couldn’t be too careful. After all, angering your employer over a bottle of indulgent wine isn’t exactly prudent no matter how you look at it. Working relations are important.”
Glen exhaled softly, and stopped next to the nearest table to set his teacup down with a clink of expensive porcelain. “If working relations carry such importance to you, I suggest you make peace with our Claudius immediately.”
The smile that Jack returned was almost rueful. “Is it really so obvious?” And when Glen fixed a pointed look on the state of his hair, he laughed, merrily, golden bubbles spilt forth from lips, that, Glen noted, were split. “It is, isn’t it.” And then, the man clasped his hands behind his back, and turned away slightly, green eyes lingering into the far distance. “But in some cases, there simply isn’t anything that can be done.”
And Glen, on his part, felt neither stirrings of sympathy nor urges of any particular emotion. However, he did feel a certain band of irritation to that answer, which surprised him more than it should have. Turning away as well, his gaze rested on the decorative surface of his teacup. His eyes traced curling ivy and their bloom until it swerved to the other face of the cup and out of immediate sight. “You reap what you sow.”
“It was quite the seed.” The other man remarked almost cheerfully. Threw his arms up for emphasis like a child on Christmas day. “And it grew into the tallest ivy. Hanging trellis. That sort of thing.”
“Ivy and trellis are two different matters entirely.” He remarked dryly, unimpressed. Jack leaned in, smiled, and he supposed that he could see the paint cracking, the little frays around the edges where the smell of wine becomes especially overpowering. It occurred to him for the first time that the vintage may not be 1985, and the brand wasn’t Italian Piedmont. Fragrances of grape juice, conveniently labeled as something tainted and sparkling. The thin whispers of smoky London intermixed with the delicate turns of the exotic middle east, like some sort of Persian carpet, or Himalayan cat.
“Metaphors lie like fairy tales.”
He would not have taken a step back, even if Jack did not retreat almost immediately afterwards, bearing his smile like a triumph and clasping his hands behind his back once more. Suddenly, Italian Piedmont and 1985 became overwhelming, like the scent of history. The Vessalius laughed, and removed the towel from his head, prodding at his sticky locks with something akin to amusement.
“It looks like I have to give it a good wash after all.” A sound of disappointment. “I suppose red wine is just tenacious like that. You don’t suppose you’d be willing to lend a washing hand?”
Disgusted, Glen Baskerville walked away.
♚ ♛ ♞
He dreamed of the box and of the light and of the flaxen gold that gave it shape.
The tree rose from his dreams the most often, dominating the view of the sky with its endless branches. It was a majestic tree, surrounded by ruin. Ruin, he remembered, that wasn’t there, but he wasn’t sure, for the dream-tree was not real, and thus his memory of it wasn’t real either.
Sometimes there was the sound of the piano. Sometimes there wasn’t. But that summer, he dreamed, was a summer of laughter.
He looked up, and the sky was infinite.
♚ ♛ ♞
He didn’t find the other so much as he opened the door to the rooftop and promptly tripped over the other’s legs. After suffering through a minute or so of barely muffled snickering with as much dignity as he could muster (though, granted, not even he knew how to muster up sufficient dignity after a mishap like that), he turned to leave indignantly the way he came when he felt a sudden hand on his arm.
“No, no, I’m-- sorry--” The snickering, he noted, had not abated and this did not improve his mood any. “Please-- stay. I didn’t mean to-- Oh, your face--”
Unamused, he shook off the offending hand, and retreated into the safety of the building with a huff, only to find the other staggering after him, hand clasped over mouth in some sort of drunken dance. The snickering finally tapered off in the stairwell during the conjunction between the second and third floors, in which the Vessalius grinned and matched him, step for step.
“Rehearsal isn’t in another two hours.” He saw the incessant grin out of the corner of his eyes. A curve of the lips to match the curve of the eyes. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, anyway?”
“Elsewhere.” He jerked open the door leading to the lobby and slipped through. The other followed, footsteps nonchalant.
“If it’s elsewhere, I know a good place.” The offer was clear in his voice, and Glen ignored it in favor of breezing through the front entrance, emerging out over the street. It was then he realized that he wasn’t entirely sure where he was headed, and stopped abruptly atop the ornate staircase leading to the hustle and bustle of city life. Behind him, something bumped into him, and Jack laughed as he apologized over and over with that same cheerful sort of tone, but he tuned him out in favor of contemplation.
It was after a few moments of silence when Jack spoke again, jarring him out of his thoughts.
“I really am sorry for the mishaps.” The rue in his tone could be considered sincere. “Those two instances should at least warrant a cup of tea, if not a peaceful moment in a café somewhere. Repayment for past transgressions, if you will. Or maybe even just a nod to the fact that I used your dressing room the first day here. At least let me do that much.”
Glen considered this, and responded with finality.
“No.”
“Well, then.” Jack brushed off his summer jacket, and started his way down the stairs, turning back only to wave Glen forward readily. “Shall we be off? It’s down the street just to the left, next to the flower shop and the river. Well, what they call a river, anyway. Isn’t it going to be drained away soon? I guess we should go take a look afterward…”
He stood there for a long moment, watching his braid flash in the sun until the other man turned around and waved to him impatiently from the street, exuberant greeting drawing in unwanted attention.
“Ah, this way, Mister Baskerville! Standing there won’t get you elsewhere faster!”
The café affair was more idyllic than he had expected, the peace steeping into every sip of tea and strain of classical music filtering from the speakers. To Jack’s credit, the other spent most of the time spent in the café murmuring interesting comments about their various fellow patrons and quoting bits and pieces of Hamlet whimsically, which he tuned out without great difficulty. The tea was good and warm and the chai latte the other ordered smelled of delicate spices that made his eyes water for the first little while until he got used to it.
True to his word, by the time both drinks were on their last sips, Jack picked up the tab. He noted with distaste that the other tipped liberally and complimented the waitress on her choice of hairclips, to which the woman laughed and collected the coins without great pause.
Somehow, he then found himself overlooking a very sorry-looking river from the vantage of a delicate bridge that wasn’t so much of a bridge as it was mere park decoration, with the sinking suspicion that the man next to him had to be privy to some brand of memory-warping black magic - or at very least didn’t understand the meaning of ‘no’. Sometime between leaving the café and over-looking the river, the man had slipped his arm around his and had pulled with surprising strength, and he had been far too surprised to do anything about it until it was too late to extract himself with (relative) dignity.
“This.” He looked down upon the dying reeds, “Is a very sorry river.”
“Sorrier still.” Somehow, the man next to him was relatively subdued. “It looks as though it were nearing the end of its lifeline.”
‘There is nothing you can do.’ Somehow, those words seem vaguely appropriate for the situation, but to say so would be admittance. He remained resolutely silent until Jack tired of looking down upon reeds that were slowly joining the ranks of the undead (or of standing still, really), and walked onwards, down the pathway further into the expanses of the park.
He supposed that at this point, he could simply walk away. A quick check of his watch showed that rehearsal was due within the next hour, and while the tea was pleasant, his expedition to a park, of all places, was little more than pointless. There were better things to occupy his time. The script could always use another read-over. He had a novel, yet untouched since the flight that brought him into the country five days prior. There were any number of things fit to occupy his time, and none of them required being outdoors.
There was a flash of flaxen gold amongst the reeds.
He turned to watch the retreating back and, after pressing his hand to the bridge of his nose for a good while, followed.
Later, he found himself standing before a vendor’s stall ordering two packs of fish food while the man behind him crowed cheerfully and stared, starry-eyed, at the multitude of koi that thrived in artificial water. When the mixture arrived, he tossed a packet to Jack, and, after a brief moment of consideration, tossed the other as well.
Jack caught them both, the first with an excited grin, and the next with a frown.
“I have no intention of encouraging cannibalism in fish.” Was his dry explanation, giving the other a pointed look. The Vessalius considered this for a moment, laughed, and pulled him to the pond unceremoniously.
“The fish,” he began as he opened up a packet of fish food that more or less had the consistency of sawdust and pulled Glen’s hand forward to sprinkle a few pieces on the palm on his hand, “Like it if you drop the food right by the reeds. I think the shadows calm them a little, like a security blanket.”
“You’ve been here before.” This was his accusation, in a sense, or at the very least, very dry conversation-making. Jack looked wistful.
“Not really. But I do know fish.”
Which, in hindsight, was a rather strange thing to say, but he didn’t pay much attention. Lowering his hand into the water, he brushed the pungent flakes into the water, and retreated. A moment passed, two, and he frowned.
He opened his mouth to remark. Jack cut him off with a grin.
“You’re not very patient, are you. Even though you look it.”
His eyes flickered to the side, surprised. Jack glanced back, expectant, before lowering his hand into the water as well. The flakes floated to the surface, murky and traces of oil coloring the water a slight tint of rainbow, but he didn’t remove his hand, and Glen, curious, watched on.
“They’ll come.” The other said with finality, looking at the water intently. “When they’re hungry enough. Things have a way of working out by themselves, if you’re patient enough.”
His voice was dry when he replied. “You are an optimist.”
And Jack. Jack merely laughed, ripples of laughter that wove across the surface of the pond. Like a ripple in time. “I’ve always been an optimist. You can say it’s a bit of a bad habit on my part.”
“Even when the towers crumble and seas boil.” The words were out of his mouth before he could consider their meaning. Their significance. The droplets of water fell from Jack’s trembling fingers. “Somehow, when the world itself is falling to bits.”
“Glen--” And for his part, Glen gave the other an irritated look. Standing up, he glanced at his watch, and gestured crossly.
“We will be late for rehearsal.”
♚ ♛ ♞
That night, he dreamed of crumbling castles and vast expanses of space that folded in on itself until there really wasn’t anything left. The overwhelming smell of blood often followed, and the flashes of white -- white of purity, white of insanity beyond all else.
But most of all, there was the tree again, rising from the ashes, and by the base of the tree, a tombstone that caught the light in three different places. And when he awoke, he took his hand to his head, and thought, I know that grave.
♚ ♛ ♞
After their rehearsal, Charlotte came up to him still bound heavily in her ornate Gertrude dress and nodded out of respect. It was because of mutual respect that he nodded back. “Your acting is as superb as usual, sir.”
“Hamlet is a character of words.” Was Glen’s mild rejoinder as he fetched her a glass, which she took gratefully. “And words deceive. His character is no more real than the actions taken in his name.”
“But words also convey.” He turned, and came face-to-face with a lightly smiling Jack, who nodded to Charlotte and reached over to pluck a flower out from a nearby display, moving forward to press it into her hair. Charlotte, who was possibly the last person anyone would have pegged to be a romantic, did not disappoint by lightly slapping his hand away, and turning to Glen with the deference of someone who wished to be excused.
“My apologies.” She took with her the constant fragrance of jasmine, which probably meant that she had been straightening her hair again with that awful contraption and which meant she was probably only using half of her hair extensions. Jack, for his part, looked vaguely non-plussed, but the younger Nightray, who had followed the blond-haired man-costumed-as-a-woman over from their corner of the room, scoffed and tapped his foot impatiently.
“What’s her problem?” Was his rhetorical demand, before he turned his attention onto Glen. “And what the hell is yours?”
“Elliot--” Came Jack’s warning murmur. But true to his character, Elliot paid him no heed. Crossing his arms, he put on an accusatory tone, testament to the infamous Nightray temper.
“Where the hell were you yesterday, Baskerville? There was rehearsal, and you weren’t there.”
The Baskerville in question merely raised an eyebrow. “I was not needed for the scene.”
“You are Hamlet!” Came Elliot’s reply, his voice rising in volume in proportion to his temper. “It’s your responsibility to be at each and every rehearsal! This isn’t just some kind of a stupid gig, Baskerville. Just because you’re some bigshot--”
“I hadn’t realized,” He cut in smoothly, derision clear in his voice. “That the youngest Nightray was so dependant on moral support of his castmates.”
“Glen--”
“You try saying that again!” Roared the Nightray, prop rapier drawn and pointed in mimicry of an ancient challenge. “As if I could care less if you were there or not, Baskerville, but you’re so freakin’ selfish it’s going to bring the rest of us down, just like that--”
“Elliot.” With a breath, the Vessalius took hold of the younger man’s shoulders and sighed a long-suffering sigh. The look in his eyes, Glen noted, was that of sympathy. “Are you all right? Maybe it would be best if you could go cool your head a little...”
“My head.” Elliot punctuated his words with the grinding of teeth. “Does not need cooling. It’s that bastard that--”
“That isn’t any way to speak of a person who is right in front of you, Elliot.” And Glen looked on with amusement as Reo sauntered up from behind, waving a hand jauntily, and draped a wet towel over the younger Nightray’s head. Before the man can protest, he was being dragged off by his sleeve, leaving Jack and Glen in their corner of the room, watching as the group of actors converging slightly, hesitatingly, before breaking off into their after-rehearsal schedules like scattering fish.
Slowly, the noise level in the room died down like the jamming of a mute button. When he turned to leave as well, there was a hand on his sleeve. Turning, he could see a flash of amusement in the other’s eyes.
“Speak.” Was Glen’s irritated response.
“It’s after rehearsal. There shouldn’t be any hurry.” Jack’s tone was rather wistful. “Do you have anywhere you need to be?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because re-braiding my hair by myself can get a little troublesome.”
And that was how Glen Baskerville found himself seated on the floor of Jack’s dressing room armed with a blowdryer while Jack hummed to himself and tried not to wince too much whenever the other tugged a little too quickly, or hit a particularly vicious snag.
“I’m pretty sure part of the reason why I was casted for Ophelia was because of my hair.” The other leaned back conspiratorially, causing Glen to frown and push him back to keep the hair from dripping in his lap. “It saves money on Ophelia wigs, if nothing else.”
“Turn your head.” Was Glen’s only response, and Jack did so obediently, allowing Glen to have better access. Threading the brush through the other’s hair, he shook the blowdryer vehemently until the permeating smell of wet hair was replaced by the slightly charred smell of hair that had been recently attacked by a blowdryer.
“Elliot seems to look up to you.” He paused in his tugging of the long, blond strands, and gave Jack a look when he turned around, possibly to gauge his expression. “He talks about you often.”
“And complains about my personal matters.” Came Glen’s dry remark. “Turn your head.” And Jack duly obeyed, settling down in his flannel pajamas, allowing for Glen to return to his tugging and pulling and sometimes braiding. The stillness, however, never lasted long, for Jack had an impudent need to constant pick and prod at something, and Glen was not very quick with his hands.
“It’s only because he thinks you’re an asset to the company.” Came Jack’s wistful voice, projecting to his front, but fully audible and unmuffled because of their lack of distance. “He thinks he should have gotten the role, you know?”
“Hamlet does not suit him.” He replied, conjuring up images of the rash Nightray, who was more of a Fortinbras than anything else, but who suited Laertes in both personality and violent tendencies. “And he is still inexperienced.”
“He can only gain experience by getting opportunities.” Jack tilted his head back, and he could see a flash of green. “And besides, would you say Hamlet suits you?”
“I am more experienced than he is.” He was being mildly defensive, and was a little offended when Jack laughed.
“Well,” Jack looked up when the laughter subsided, “that wasn’t really my question.”
There was silence, in which he didn’t respond and Jack didn’t push and his fingers slowly threaded through hair. The braid grew longer with time, like lengthening shadows. The Vessalius broke the silence first, turning slightly so as not to tug on his own braid, but managing to face the other due to the sheer length of his hair.
“The King of Procrastination.” He mused, handing Glen a hairtie. “He never really accomplished anything until things started crumbling around him.”
“He was a fool.” Was Glen’s stern response, offset by the flourish which he sealed the end of the braid.
“Would you have done it any differently?” Came the teasing response.
“Me?” He rose, and brushed off his jacket. A few golden strands drifted to the ground, lost in the beige of the carpet. There was some consideration before he spoke again, clipped words like paper snippings. “If it were up to me, I would have betrayed before I would be betrayed.”
When he looked at the other, there was sadness reflected in a pool of green. The other man stood, braid uncurling.
“Glen.”
He turned. “It’s simply a very elaborate story.”
And as he walked away, he wondered at the sense of foreboding that followed like a cloud.
[End part one]
Part two is coming up in a few hours! o/
[Fandom] Pandora Hearts
[Characters] Jack Vessalius, Glen Baskerville, and appearances by the rest of the Pandora Hearts cast
[Warnings] None
[Summary] AU, canon continuation in the vaguest sense; A man is cast as Ophelia, and Glen just has to deal.
[Dedication] Numi_Nami, for the PH gift exchange of 2011
So this got really long, really, really quickly. Part one is here, part two is coming. This is for Nums for the Pandora Hearts exchange, because the lolirony tends to work like that. And because this is the only pairing I ship in PH and thus is the only pairing I can't do justice and bawww I'm sorry Nums ;A;.
This is a modern-day AU with a lot of references to Hamlet, the reason which will become extremely apparently extremely quickly. It also features a little violence in the second part. I-I hope this is okay, Nums o/;;;;
Sojourns of a Glass Tower
♚ ♛ ♞
Once upon a time, there was a box at the end of the universe.
Once upon a time, that box was opened. From that box came an outward wash of amnesia. From a box, came an eternal night.
Within the night, there was light.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized what he thought was ‘light’ wasn’t really light at all.
♚ ♛ ♞
A man was cast for the role of Ophelia.
It was nearly unheard of, for a role like this in an industry like this, especially in an era with buxom ladies decorating every other billboard pinned row upon row on rooftops and other incredibly conspicuous and often highly inappropriate places. They were reassured repeatedly and profusely by Reim Lunettes, secretary and general affairs manager of the man who was more or less the sponsor of the Pandora Project, that the man in question was more than suitable for the role, and with a little hair and makeup and some padding in the right places you wouldn’t even notice the difference. He’ll be in today, the man promised, five-o’clock sharp. There was a moment as the man glanced quickly over to where he was standing, still fiddling with the frames of his glasses nervously, conveying a plea that wasn’t so much discreet as it was caught by just about every other member of the troupe - you will be working with him closely; please, please, please be there. That was how he later found himself watching with mild curiosity as the bespectacled man strode into the dressing room with hurried steps and wrung his hands like they were sodden wash cloths.
When it became clear that there as a distinct lack of body following him, their Laertes, young Elliot Nightray, heir to a hideous fortune and overwhelming temper, made a sound of utmost discontent and slung his rapier over his shoulder.
“Well?” He demanded, tapping the scabbard with characteristic impatience. “It’s a quarter past five. Even he’s here.” At this point, several pairs of eyes glanced over to where he was leaning nonchalantly against the frame of a painted backdrop, which he ignored pointedly. “Where is he?”
Reim cringed and tried not to look piteous.
“He should be here.” The man admitted, pushing up his glasses nervously. “The plane was due for arrival three hours ago. He was supposed to take a taxi directly from the airport. We even paid the taxi in advance. I don’t understand how anything could have gone wrong.”
“Contact him, then.” The short-tempered man demanded, punctuating his words with a swing of his rapier in annoyance. “Phone him, whatever. Get him to hurry it up so we can start reviewing the next scenes already.”
“Someone seems impatient.” Came the sudden and rather familiar drawl. Eyes turned to the blond-haired man sitting at the dressing table; chin propped on his hand. He sat up, and turned to look at the group primly, mismatched eyes thoughtful under heavy lids. “Could it be that our young Laertes have more pressing concerns than the introduction of our dear Ophelia?”
The ‘what sort of brother are you, now’ was left mostly unsaid, but knowing Vincent Nightray, it was heavily implied and he probably implied it in all sorts of wrong ways. The younger Nightray, to his credit (or perhaps he simply didn’t pick up on it, which was the likelier scenario), merely huffed in annoyance, and rolled his eyes in a childish fashion. “I have better things to do than waiting.”
“What, then?” Came the mild rejoinder and an amused lilt to the voice. “A pressing engagement? A recent booking at a love hotel? Do tell, we are most curious.”
“You--” The indignant response was quickly muffled when their other bespectacled member laid a hand upon the young Nightray heir’s shoulder, he noted, effectively muffled his explosive temper. Reo pushed his glasses up, and looked to Elliot with all the patience of a parent who is used to their child’s hands permanently stuck in the cookie jar.
“Your impatience really was uncalled for.” Was his quiet remark, lifting his hand from Elliot’s shoulder and clasping it behind his back neatly. “You know how traffic can get this time of the day, especially on the highway. Really, what would you expect them to say to him, even if they did contact him, especially if it’s a traffic jam?”
“Hell if I know.” Came Elliot’s annoyed reply as he reached to pat down his shoulder gingerly, as though brushing off imaginary dust. “Do I look like I care about excuses? Get him to hurry the hell up. And just who the hell needs a shitty Ophelia that doesn’t even know how to get to rehearsal on time? Tell him that if he doesn’t get here in the next fifteen minutes, he’s fired.”
“Ah!” There was a cheerful gasp from next to the costume rack. He watched on as the golden-haired Vessalius walked forward with a smile and a spring in his steps, innocent smile plastered all over his face like so much decorative icing. In his hands he held the Hamlet script, bound in gold foil and labeled such in fancy, Victorian-esque text font that probably gave Monotype Corsiva a run for its money. He flipped through the bound script absently as he spoke, the sound of the fluttering of pages a constant background. “I didn’t know that Elliot had administrative rights like that! If I’d known sooner, maybe I would’ve asked for a residence that faces the beach and better air-conditioning. God knows I really need both right now.”
Elliot, as expected, was less than pleased by this intrusion. He proceeded to express his displeasure by lifting a finger and pointing it vehemently. “Don’t get so friendly with me, Vessalius! And who the hell asked you, anyway? If you don’t have anything to contribute, then you should just shut the hell up!”
“Gentlemen--” Reim began hesitantly, only to be cut off decisively by a wayward pout.
“My air conditioner did break, though, so it is relevant.” Oz was saying, his features twisted into a perplexed façade, the sort of innocence found only on three-year olds and encyclopedia salesmen. “They don’t call it summer for nothing. Even you’d have to agree.”
“Shut up!” And here, he could see Reo with his hand, reaching for that shoulder once again, but the young Nightray brushed it off like so much lint. From the sidelines, he could see the amusement crawling up the elder Nightray’s face as he turned to face the mirror like a bouquet of ivy. So much ivy that any more, he mused, and it would have flowered. “Quit joking around, Vessalius! It’s your sister that’s being replaced! Just try telling me that you don’t have a thing or two to say about that. Just try it --”
“Elliot.” Reo began, insistent. And if Oz Vessalius’ smile seemed to waver by the corners of his mouth, it was just the lighting.
“It isn’t like that, Elliot.” The golden-haired man laughed a little, hands poised above the face of the script. “And besides, it wasn’t like Elliot and Ada were getting along anyway. It’s for the best this way--”
The rapier suddenly met the floor with a resounding crash. “Are you implying that it’s my--”
“I’m not! But I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be so upset, since--”
“Upset? Upset? Who the hell are you calling upset? I dare you to say that again, you bastard! Bastard!” Immediately, the room was thrown into relative chaos as the younger Nightray lunged at the Vessalius, fists clenched and putting his set of lungs to good use, held back only by a staggering Reo. To the side, Vincent Nightray yawned, and slipped from his seat, sidling towards the door nonchalantly as Reim hurried into the room, throwing himself between the one-sided fist-match with panic born of pure experience.
When Oz Vessalius looked as though he really was going to say it again (and louder, more forcibly than what Elliot’s arteries would have been able to take), he decided that perhaps the elder Nightray had read the situation appropriately, and thus followed suit -- slipping out of the door as voices rose behind him.
♚ ♛ ♞
It wasn’t so much of a dream as it was a feeling.
Within the light, there was flaxen gold, spun like silk.
Within the flaxen gold, there was the glint of a blade.
The blade was dyed red.
♚ ♛ ♞
It was a surprise that when he opened the door to his private dressing room, the couch was already occupied.
Closing the door behind him quietly, he ignored the lump of blankets sprawled over red satin, and made his way to the dressing table. As he sat down and pulled the script from its customary bag, the pile of blankets stirred. He ignored it until it began to speak.
“Who’re you?” The voice was slightly slurred from sleep, gentle tenor that suggested a man, or perhaps a woman with a low vocal range. The rustle of blankets suggested that the person had risen from the couch, and was most likely boring holes into his back.
The yawn that punctuated the question implied that the person was not yet completely awake, but he had the feeling that the person in question was rarely completely lucid in the first place.
He flipped another page. “This is my dressing room.”
A pause, and there was a chuckle. “I’m sorry, but... that doesn’t quite tell me who you are.”
The chuckle, he decided, was an annoying sound. “Glen Baskerville.”
“Ah!” A hint of recognition seemed to permeate the other’s remark. He heard rather than felt the approach, the slide of fabric as the other slid off of the couch, the soft padding of steps as the other came to stand by his left. “You’re the one cast as Hamlet.”
He didn’t bother to reply. The silence stretched on into the realm of the awkward until the other took it as an affirmative (when in reality, he was calculating the dry cleaning costs of the blankets that had no doubt slipped to the floor upon the other’s rising), and leaned down as though to fill it through sheer willpower. From his peripheral vision, he could see the ends of a long, blond braid, curled on the dressing table like a perfect question mark. “Isn’t it your turn to ask?”
“You are the one who is to play the role of Ophelia.” The lack of patience in his tone seemed to have been lost in translation, for the other merely laughed.
“Yes, but, that doesn’t quite tell you who I am.”
The laughter, he decided, was not much better. Turning in his chair, he faced the other and studied him quietly. A blond-haired man smiled back genially, hair mussed and shirttails hanging -- unkempt appearance pointing to the spontaneous nature of the nap. He waved, lightheartedly, and looked to him with an expectant look found only on newborn puppies and naked, baby birds.
“You may leave.” He murmured, turning. And he wasn’t entirely surprised when the other merely laughed it off. There was a shift of cloth, and their Ophelia rested himself on the table, kicking his legs in mid-air with childish exuberance.
“Jack Vessalius.” Came the reply, cheerful, almost as though he had, indeed, heard, but had heard something else all together than a polite request of his leave. And when no reply from the other was forthcoming, he pressed on. “It’s true that one of my main motivations for accepting this job was because my nephew was on the cast listing. I don’t get to see him perform often, so I thought this would be a good chance to reconnect. The play being Hamlet was a bonus too, since it was one of my favorites from the folios.”
He wasn’t sure why he responded.
“You are replacing your niece.”
There was a slight pause before Jack spoke again. The soft tenor grew softer. “I couldn’t replace her. That’s why I play Ophelia.”
The statement made very little sense to him. Flipping his script book closed, he turned around again to meet the eyes of the other. Jack smiled back, leaning, braid thick as rope and smile wrought with secrets. “I haven’t heard of you.”
There was amusement when the blond-haired man replied. “On the other hand, you're rather infamous.”
He smirked. “I did not know that the Vessalius had a third son.”
And he was duly surprised when the other’s smile curved. It was enough, in hindsight, to wipe the smirk off of his face when Jack Vessalius tilted his head and delivered half the message with fathomless eyes.“Ah, well, I suppose there are many things you don’t know about the Vessalius.”
When he did not reply, the other man merely leaned back against the mirror, reflection every bit as idyllic. “But since you’re here, it means that the meeting’s over, isn’t it? It’s a little late, but I wonder if I should go and report in anyway.”
Glen Baskerville raised a delicate eyebrow. “That, is none of my concern.”
And in response, the other merely nodded contemplatively, as though taking Glen’s off-handed comment entirely seriously. “I suppose you’re right. It isn’t.” A shuffle, and he slid off of the desk, passing Glen by entirely as he made his way towards the door. “But I will, anyway.”
His gloved hand touched the door lightly when he turned again, smile radiant. “I look forward to working with you.”
The door opened on unseen hinges. Jack Vessalius slipped out and was gone.
♚ ♛ ♞
Their first rehearsal ended in distaste.
If Shakespeare had intended for King Claudius to skewer Ophelia with a large and pointy stage prop sometime during the beginning of act three, Glen mused sardonically, he was free to speak up. As it stood now, their Claudius, Vincent Nightray, seemed to have spent a considerable amount of time beforehand thinking up new and exciting ways to ensure that Jack Vessalius could not make his way across the mock-stage unscathed, and his efforts didn’t go unnoticed. However, it wasn’t until the goblet of wine ‘accidentally’ upended itself over Jack’s head that anyone found enough courage to speak up on it.
“Mister Vincent,” He overheard Reim Lunettes as he approached the man with the mismatched eyes who had been fixing his prop earrings by the dressing table with a sated air. “It’s come to my attention that-I mean, I beg your pardon, but… is something amiss?”
The man in question blinked. “It isn’t very nice, to come to someone with the intention of accusing them.”
Reim visibly reddened. “Ah, well. Mister Vincent, I--”
The other merely yawned. “Perhaps you can put your time you’ve wasted pointing fingers to better use by bringing relief to our unfortunate Ophelia. I don’t think he has realized that his hair is beginning to discolor.”
At this, Reim blanched. Glen watched as Jack, who had been dripping wine across the carpet cheerfully, visibly perked up when the bespectacled man came hurtling across the room with a towel. Reo, who had been standing nearby and sipping tea sedately, spoke up as he refilled Glen’s teacup with grace of someone who was very, very used to pouring tea. “I wonder what sort of grudge it’s supposed to be.”
Vincent Nightray, thought Glen, was the sort of man who could make a grudge out of anything. He considered saying so, but decided that it didn’t particularly need verbalization; Reo, who read thoughts almost as easily as he poured tea, merely smiled and set the teapot down soundlessly. “There’s only one person who could have made it so blatant, isn’t it?”
Reo then left with a brief apology that wasn’t apologetic so much as it was out of formality’s sake when Elliot jammed his prop rapier into the trunk of a prop tree while swinging it at an unduly amused Oz, and couldn’t get it unstuck again. He took with him the breath of idyllic silence that he carried with him like a cloud even when he spoke; as soon as he vacated, Jack wandered over smelling of rich, dark wine and a towel on his head.
“At least it wasn’t the whole bottle.” For someone who had been shoved off stage, staged to step on a prop rake pointy end first and had a glass of wine upended over his head within the last half hour, he was taking it rather well. “1895, Italian Piedmont. It’s a good vintage, but not really a cheap one.” At this, his contemplative look turned rueful. “I wonder if Mister Lunettes would let me have the bottle, if I asked. I mean, really asked.”
“Rufus Barma is a well-known wine connoisseur. One bottle is negligible” Glen lifted his tea, saucer and all, and sipped it. Frowned. Jasmine did not mix well with the excessive fragrance of Italian Piedmont that wafted incessantly. He considered asking for the other to leave, but remembered how much of an effect that had the first time, and did the intelligent thing by removing himself instead.
Unfortunately, to his distaste, the blond-haired man padded after him obliviously. “Are you speaking that from experience? Or is it just conjecture?” And when Glen turned to give the other a most unamused look, he merely laughed. “I couldn’t be too careful. After all, angering your employer over a bottle of indulgent wine isn’t exactly prudent no matter how you look at it. Working relations are important.”
Glen exhaled softly, and stopped next to the nearest table to set his teacup down with a clink of expensive porcelain. “If working relations carry such importance to you, I suggest you make peace with our Claudius immediately.”
The smile that Jack returned was almost rueful. “Is it really so obvious?” And when Glen fixed a pointed look on the state of his hair, he laughed, merrily, golden bubbles spilt forth from lips, that, Glen noted, were split. “It is, isn’t it.” And then, the man clasped his hands behind his back, and turned away slightly, green eyes lingering into the far distance. “But in some cases, there simply isn’t anything that can be done.”
And Glen, on his part, felt neither stirrings of sympathy nor urges of any particular emotion. However, he did feel a certain band of irritation to that answer, which surprised him more than it should have. Turning away as well, his gaze rested on the decorative surface of his teacup. His eyes traced curling ivy and their bloom until it swerved to the other face of the cup and out of immediate sight. “You reap what you sow.”
“It was quite the seed.” The other man remarked almost cheerfully. Threw his arms up for emphasis like a child on Christmas day. “And it grew into the tallest ivy. Hanging trellis. That sort of thing.”
“Ivy and trellis are two different matters entirely.” He remarked dryly, unimpressed. Jack leaned in, smiled, and he supposed that he could see the paint cracking, the little frays around the edges where the smell of wine becomes especially overpowering. It occurred to him for the first time that the vintage may not be 1985, and the brand wasn’t Italian Piedmont. Fragrances of grape juice, conveniently labeled as something tainted and sparkling. The thin whispers of smoky London intermixed with the delicate turns of the exotic middle east, like some sort of Persian carpet, or Himalayan cat.
“Metaphors lie like fairy tales.”
He would not have taken a step back, even if Jack did not retreat almost immediately afterwards, bearing his smile like a triumph and clasping his hands behind his back once more. Suddenly, Italian Piedmont and 1985 became overwhelming, like the scent of history. The Vessalius laughed, and removed the towel from his head, prodding at his sticky locks with something akin to amusement.
“It looks like I have to give it a good wash after all.” A sound of disappointment. “I suppose red wine is just tenacious like that. You don’t suppose you’d be willing to lend a washing hand?”
Disgusted, Glen Baskerville walked away.
♚ ♛ ♞
He dreamed of the box and of the light and of the flaxen gold that gave it shape.
The tree rose from his dreams the most often, dominating the view of the sky with its endless branches. It was a majestic tree, surrounded by ruin. Ruin, he remembered, that wasn’t there, but he wasn’t sure, for the dream-tree was not real, and thus his memory of it wasn’t real either.
Sometimes there was the sound of the piano. Sometimes there wasn’t. But that summer, he dreamed, was a summer of laughter.
He looked up, and the sky was infinite.
♚ ♛ ♞
He didn’t find the other so much as he opened the door to the rooftop and promptly tripped over the other’s legs. After suffering through a minute or so of barely muffled snickering with as much dignity as he could muster (though, granted, not even he knew how to muster up sufficient dignity after a mishap like that), he turned to leave indignantly the way he came when he felt a sudden hand on his arm.
“No, no, I’m-- sorry--” The snickering, he noted, had not abated and this did not improve his mood any. “Please-- stay. I didn’t mean to-- Oh, your face--”
Unamused, he shook off the offending hand, and retreated into the safety of the building with a huff, only to find the other staggering after him, hand clasped over mouth in some sort of drunken dance. The snickering finally tapered off in the stairwell during the conjunction between the second and third floors, in which the Vessalius grinned and matched him, step for step.
“Rehearsal isn’t in another two hours.” He saw the incessant grin out of the corner of his eyes. A curve of the lips to match the curve of the eyes. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, anyway?”
“Elsewhere.” He jerked open the door leading to the lobby and slipped through. The other followed, footsteps nonchalant.
“If it’s elsewhere, I know a good place.” The offer was clear in his voice, and Glen ignored it in favor of breezing through the front entrance, emerging out over the street. It was then he realized that he wasn’t entirely sure where he was headed, and stopped abruptly atop the ornate staircase leading to the hustle and bustle of city life. Behind him, something bumped into him, and Jack laughed as he apologized over and over with that same cheerful sort of tone, but he tuned him out in favor of contemplation.
It was after a few moments of silence when Jack spoke again, jarring him out of his thoughts.
“I really am sorry for the mishaps.” The rue in his tone could be considered sincere. “Those two instances should at least warrant a cup of tea, if not a peaceful moment in a café somewhere. Repayment for past transgressions, if you will. Or maybe even just a nod to the fact that I used your dressing room the first day here. At least let me do that much.”
Glen considered this, and responded with finality.
“No.”
“Well, then.” Jack brushed off his summer jacket, and started his way down the stairs, turning back only to wave Glen forward readily. “Shall we be off? It’s down the street just to the left, next to the flower shop and the river. Well, what they call a river, anyway. Isn’t it going to be drained away soon? I guess we should go take a look afterward…”
He stood there for a long moment, watching his braid flash in the sun until the other man turned around and waved to him impatiently from the street, exuberant greeting drawing in unwanted attention.
“Ah, this way, Mister Baskerville! Standing there won’t get you elsewhere faster!”
The café affair was more idyllic than he had expected, the peace steeping into every sip of tea and strain of classical music filtering from the speakers. To Jack’s credit, the other spent most of the time spent in the café murmuring interesting comments about their various fellow patrons and quoting bits and pieces of Hamlet whimsically, which he tuned out without great difficulty. The tea was good and warm and the chai latte the other ordered smelled of delicate spices that made his eyes water for the first little while until he got used to it.
True to his word, by the time both drinks were on their last sips, Jack picked up the tab. He noted with distaste that the other tipped liberally and complimented the waitress on her choice of hairclips, to which the woman laughed and collected the coins without great pause.
Somehow, he then found himself overlooking a very sorry-looking river from the vantage of a delicate bridge that wasn’t so much of a bridge as it was mere park decoration, with the sinking suspicion that the man next to him had to be privy to some brand of memory-warping black magic - or at very least didn’t understand the meaning of ‘no’. Sometime between leaving the café and over-looking the river, the man had slipped his arm around his and had pulled with surprising strength, and he had been far too surprised to do anything about it until it was too late to extract himself with (relative) dignity.
“This.” He looked down upon the dying reeds, “Is a very sorry river.”
“Sorrier still.” Somehow, the man next to him was relatively subdued. “It looks as though it were nearing the end of its lifeline.”
‘There is nothing you can do.’ Somehow, those words seem vaguely appropriate for the situation, but to say so would be admittance. He remained resolutely silent until Jack tired of looking down upon reeds that were slowly joining the ranks of the undead (or of standing still, really), and walked onwards, down the pathway further into the expanses of the park.
He supposed that at this point, he could simply walk away. A quick check of his watch showed that rehearsal was due within the next hour, and while the tea was pleasant, his expedition to a park, of all places, was little more than pointless. There were better things to occupy his time. The script could always use another read-over. He had a novel, yet untouched since the flight that brought him into the country five days prior. There were any number of things fit to occupy his time, and none of them required being outdoors.
There was a flash of flaxen gold amongst the reeds.
He turned to watch the retreating back and, after pressing his hand to the bridge of his nose for a good while, followed.
Later, he found himself standing before a vendor’s stall ordering two packs of fish food while the man behind him crowed cheerfully and stared, starry-eyed, at the multitude of koi that thrived in artificial water. When the mixture arrived, he tossed a packet to Jack, and, after a brief moment of consideration, tossed the other as well.
Jack caught them both, the first with an excited grin, and the next with a frown.
“I have no intention of encouraging cannibalism in fish.” Was his dry explanation, giving the other a pointed look. The Vessalius considered this for a moment, laughed, and pulled him to the pond unceremoniously.
“The fish,” he began as he opened up a packet of fish food that more or less had the consistency of sawdust and pulled Glen’s hand forward to sprinkle a few pieces on the palm on his hand, “Like it if you drop the food right by the reeds. I think the shadows calm them a little, like a security blanket.”
“You’ve been here before.” This was his accusation, in a sense, or at the very least, very dry conversation-making. Jack looked wistful.
“Not really. But I do know fish.”
Which, in hindsight, was a rather strange thing to say, but he didn’t pay much attention. Lowering his hand into the water, he brushed the pungent flakes into the water, and retreated. A moment passed, two, and he frowned.
He opened his mouth to remark. Jack cut him off with a grin.
“You’re not very patient, are you. Even though you look it.”
His eyes flickered to the side, surprised. Jack glanced back, expectant, before lowering his hand into the water as well. The flakes floated to the surface, murky and traces of oil coloring the water a slight tint of rainbow, but he didn’t remove his hand, and Glen, curious, watched on.
“They’ll come.” The other said with finality, looking at the water intently. “When they’re hungry enough. Things have a way of working out by themselves, if you’re patient enough.”
His voice was dry when he replied. “You are an optimist.”
And Jack. Jack merely laughed, ripples of laughter that wove across the surface of the pond. Like a ripple in time. “I’ve always been an optimist. You can say it’s a bit of a bad habit on my part.”
“Even when the towers crumble and seas boil.” The words were out of his mouth before he could consider their meaning. Their significance. The droplets of water fell from Jack’s trembling fingers. “Somehow, when the world itself is falling to bits.”
“Glen--” And for his part, Glen gave the other an irritated look. Standing up, he glanced at his watch, and gestured crossly.
“We will be late for rehearsal.”
♚ ♛ ♞
That night, he dreamed of crumbling castles and vast expanses of space that folded in on itself until there really wasn’t anything left. The overwhelming smell of blood often followed, and the flashes of white -- white of purity, white of insanity beyond all else.
But most of all, there was the tree again, rising from the ashes, and by the base of the tree, a tombstone that caught the light in three different places. And when he awoke, he took his hand to his head, and thought, I know that grave.
♚ ♛ ♞
After their rehearsal, Charlotte came up to him still bound heavily in her ornate Gertrude dress and nodded out of respect. It was because of mutual respect that he nodded back. “Your acting is as superb as usual, sir.”
“Hamlet is a character of words.” Was Glen’s mild rejoinder as he fetched her a glass, which she took gratefully. “And words deceive. His character is no more real than the actions taken in his name.”
“But words also convey.” He turned, and came face-to-face with a lightly smiling Jack, who nodded to Charlotte and reached over to pluck a flower out from a nearby display, moving forward to press it into her hair. Charlotte, who was possibly the last person anyone would have pegged to be a romantic, did not disappoint by lightly slapping his hand away, and turning to Glen with the deference of someone who wished to be excused.
“My apologies.” She took with her the constant fragrance of jasmine, which probably meant that she had been straightening her hair again with that awful contraption and which meant she was probably only using half of her hair extensions. Jack, for his part, looked vaguely non-plussed, but the younger Nightray, who had followed the blond-haired man-costumed-as-a-woman over from their corner of the room, scoffed and tapped his foot impatiently.
“What’s her problem?” Was his rhetorical demand, before he turned his attention onto Glen. “And what the hell is yours?”
“Elliot--” Came Jack’s warning murmur. But true to his character, Elliot paid him no heed. Crossing his arms, he put on an accusatory tone, testament to the infamous Nightray temper.
“Where the hell were you yesterday, Baskerville? There was rehearsal, and you weren’t there.”
The Baskerville in question merely raised an eyebrow. “I was not needed for the scene.”
“You are Hamlet!” Came Elliot’s reply, his voice rising in volume in proportion to his temper. “It’s your responsibility to be at each and every rehearsal! This isn’t just some kind of a stupid gig, Baskerville. Just because you’re some bigshot--”
“I hadn’t realized,” He cut in smoothly, derision clear in his voice. “That the youngest Nightray was so dependant on moral support of his castmates.”
“Glen--”
“You try saying that again!” Roared the Nightray, prop rapier drawn and pointed in mimicry of an ancient challenge. “As if I could care less if you were there or not, Baskerville, but you’re so freakin’ selfish it’s going to bring the rest of us down, just like that--”
“Elliot.” With a breath, the Vessalius took hold of the younger man’s shoulders and sighed a long-suffering sigh. The look in his eyes, Glen noted, was that of sympathy. “Are you all right? Maybe it would be best if you could go cool your head a little...”
“My head.” Elliot punctuated his words with the grinding of teeth. “Does not need cooling. It’s that bastard that--”
“That isn’t any way to speak of a person who is right in front of you, Elliot.” And Glen looked on with amusement as Reo sauntered up from behind, waving a hand jauntily, and draped a wet towel over the younger Nightray’s head. Before the man can protest, he was being dragged off by his sleeve, leaving Jack and Glen in their corner of the room, watching as the group of actors converging slightly, hesitatingly, before breaking off into their after-rehearsal schedules like scattering fish.
Slowly, the noise level in the room died down like the jamming of a mute button. When he turned to leave as well, there was a hand on his sleeve. Turning, he could see a flash of amusement in the other’s eyes.
“Speak.” Was Glen’s irritated response.
“It’s after rehearsal. There shouldn’t be any hurry.” Jack’s tone was rather wistful. “Do you have anywhere you need to be?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because re-braiding my hair by myself can get a little troublesome.”
And that was how Glen Baskerville found himself seated on the floor of Jack’s dressing room armed with a blowdryer while Jack hummed to himself and tried not to wince too much whenever the other tugged a little too quickly, or hit a particularly vicious snag.
“I’m pretty sure part of the reason why I was casted for Ophelia was because of my hair.” The other leaned back conspiratorially, causing Glen to frown and push him back to keep the hair from dripping in his lap. “It saves money on Ophelia wigs, if nothing else.”
“Turn your head.” Was Glen’s only response, and Jack did so obediently, allowing Glen to have better access. Threading the brush through the other’s hair, he shook the blowdryer vehemently until the permeating smell of wet hair was replaced by the slightly charred smell of hair that had been recently attacked by a blowdryer.
“Elliot seems to look up to you.” He paused in his tugging of the long, blond strands, and gave Jack a look when he turned around, possibly to gauge his expression. “He talks about you often.”
“And complains about my personal matters.” Came Glen’s dry remark. “Turn your head.” And Jack duly obeyed, settling down in his flannel pajamas, allowing for Glen to return to his tugging and pulling and sometimes braiding. The stillness, however, never lasted long, for Jack had an impudent need to constant pick and prod at something, and Glen was not very quick with his hands.
“It’s only because he thinks you’re an asset to the company.” Came Jack’s wistful voice, projecting to his front, but fully audible and unmuffled because of their lack of distance. “He thinks he should have gotten the role, you know?”
“Hamlet does not suit him.” He replied, conjuring up images of the rash Nightray, who was more of a Fortinbras than anything else, but who suited Laertes in both personality and violent tendencies. “And he is still inexperienced.”
“He can only gain experience by getting opportunities.” Jack tilted his head back, and he could see a flash of green. “And besides, would you say Hamlet suits you?”
“I am more experienced than he is.” He was being mildly defensive, and was a little offended when Jack laughed.
“Well,” Jack looked up when the laughter subsided, “that wasn’t really my question.”
There was silence, in which he didn’t respond and Jack didn’t push and his fingers slowly threaded through hair. The braid grew longer with time, like lengthening shadows. The Vessalius broke the silence first, turning slightly so as not to tug on his own braid, but managing to face the other due to the sheer length of his hair.
“The King of Procrastination.” He mused, handing Glen a hairtie. “He never really accomplished anything until things started crumbling around him.”
“He was a fool.” Was Glen’s stern response, offset by the flourish which he sealed the end of the braid.
“Would you have done it any differently?” Came the teasing response.
“Me?” He rose, and brushed off his jacket. A few golden strands drifted to the ground, lost in the beige of the carpet. There was some consideration before he spoke again, clipped words like paper snippings. “If it were up to me, I would have betrayed before I would be betrayed.”
When he looked at the other, there was sadness reflected in a pool of green. The other man stood, braid uncurling.
“Glen.”
He turned. “It’s simply a very elaborate story.”
And as he walked away, he wondered at the sense of foreboding that followed like a cloud.
[End part one]
Part two is coming up in a few hours! o/