Chapter Text
There were a couple of things worth knowing about Bruno Madrigal. Some pieces of information that would explain how he got into this whole situation in the first place. The first is this:
Bruno always said his gift was acting.
But he was shy, painfully so. When he was alone in his dormitory, he could monologue to the high heavens: but in front of others he found himself clamming up tighter than an oyster. So though his true passion would always be on the stage, he realised his personality was a far better fit for behind it.
The second thing to know is that Bruno was a very good writer. Exceptional, really. His sister, Julieta, had once compared him to the Bard. Of course, she had to - she was the only one who really supported his dream of writing for the stage. His mother told him it was a waste of time, and he should find employment that would actually benefit his family. Pepa didn’t really seem to care one way or another, she was so wrapped up in her own personal anxieties. In a way that was worse than out-and-out scorn.
When he graduated university, he was amazed he got the opportunity to become part of the new writers’ team at the grand teatro. The people writing the new plays that would take the city, no, the country by storm.
But he was so quiet, his ideas were never heard. Always shouted over in the pitching room.
The third thing, the thing that tied this all together, and really cemented Bruno’s situation, was this:
Bruno did not have anywhere to live after university.
He could have gone back home with his mother, but he wasn’t sure he could deal with the crushing pressure of her disappointment in his career. She would never understand his passion, not really.
And the prop room in the basement of the teatro was awfully out of the way.
So he just… moved in there.
Bruno was so quiet nobody even noticed.
Well, didn’t notice it was him, anyway.
It was hilarious when they started blaming his creaks and scratches on a ghost. But it did give him an idea.
Nobody paid attention when Bruno Madrigal disappeared. Nobody realised the strange coincidence of that event verses the scripts that were suddenly submitted to the writers’ table under the moniker fantasma de la teatro.
But they did start paying attention to what he was writing.
Started putting on his scripts, because they finally saw how good they were. Eventually got rid of the rest of the writers because he was the only one they needed, considering how well his plays were received.
And realising his existence was a burden to everyone, especially his family - one day Bruno Madrigal went into the walls, and then never came out again.
*
“There’s a ghost in the teatro, you know.”
You roll your eyes at your new friend Margarita. You haven’t known her for long - a handful of days, if that, when you met at the auditions - but you’d taken a shine to the girl. A sweet thing, if prone to flights of fancy.
“Ghosts don’t exist.”
“Yeah? Then how do you explain the scripts that always appear at the start of every new season, huh?”
Margarita eyes the inside of the theatre carefully. You, too, are nervous - but not for the same reason she is.
Only the lucky few get added to the teatro’s acting roster whenever they have open auditions. You’d never expected to get in, despite your hard work and effort - Mistress Fortune has never really been on your side.
Yet after rounds and rounds of monologues, duologues, scenes, character work you’d made it.
Now you’d have to start from the bottom up again. Begin as ensemble, prove you were worthy to be here. And you’d work as hard and as much as you needed to do it.
You realise Margarita is still watching you, waiting for an answer to her question. You sigh.
“I don’t know. Probably a publicity stunt, right? Everyone wants to go and see a play written by a ghost.” You think, then laugh. “Or it’s a man hiding in the walls pretending to be a ghost. Can you imagine?”
Margarita manages a faint smile. You grip your hands into fists, determined.
“I don’t care where they come from. I just want to act.”
From the tiny crack where the floor meets the walls, Bruno watches you.
*
Bruno was never particularly impressed when the new arrivals came. They were usually self-obsessed, snobbish little creatures. Believed they were destined to be the next big thing.
But you… you’re different.
You have no airs, no pretensions. You do not think you are better than the rest of the people who got into the cast. You do not believe anything was owed to you. You do not seek stardom and fortune. You are there, simply, because you love to act.
Bruno sees a lot of himself in you.
You have talent. Buckets of it. But you’re shy. You get trampled over by the other members of the cast, the ones who have been there for longer, have louder voices. Your natural ability is being forced under a bushel.
He does not want to see what happened to him happen to you. That is how he ended up in the walls.
Bruno has an idea.
*
A new play has materialised, apparently. Everyone in the cast is crowding around the director to hear how the casting will go. Margarita is glued to your side, wringing her hands in nervousness.
“Do you think we’ll get roles?” she murmurs, eyes darting. You shake your head.
“Of course we won’t. We’re new. The newbies never do. We’ll probably be in the crowd scenes, or something.”
The auditions over these past few days hadn’t left you with a lot of hope, even though you’d poured your heart out in front of the director. But at least you’d be onstage.
“Good that you know your place.”
You and Margarita both jump and turn to see Angelo Moreno, leading actor at the teatro and the resident heartthrob. Always cast as the leading man because of the sheer number of people he drew to an audience. He is objectively handsome, true: dark hair and dark eyes, a light dusting of stubble on his strong jaw. Well-defined cheekbones and full lips. Self-assured to the point of arrogance.
You’d never seen the appeal in him, yourself. But Margarita goes stock still at your side, giggling nervously.
“Señor Moreno!” she squeaks. He gives her a cursory nod before turning his smouldering eyes back to you.
You try not to wince under them.
“None of the newcomers get a role in their first few productions. Stick with it, you’ll get there. Or I can always put in a good word for you.”
He winks, and it leaves you with a sick feeling. Margarita just titters.
The door slams open, and the assembled cast all turn their heads at once. Señor Vargas, the overall director of the theatre, stomps in. The new script is gripped in his fist, and so is the cast list.
He looks agitated.
“Never,” he announces, “in the years since the ghost started writing for us, has he cast the lead role.”
A murmur of concern goes through the assembled crowd.
Vargas runs his hand through his hair.
And then he says your name.
Every single pair of eyes in the room lands on you.
*
There is a lot of arguing. A lot of pointing fingers, accusations towards you.
Bruno realises this may not have been the best idea. Watching you be surrounded, blamed, shouted at - it twists his stomach into a knot of bile.
They will not cast you. Of course not. You are a new member. New members do not get a leading role in their first performance.
And, when he hears this news, Bruno does the only thing he can.
He does not threaten mayhem or violence. He does not throw the teatro into chaos. He simply finds the one copy of the script he gave to Vargas, and takes it back. In its place he leaves a very polite note reaffirming his position: either you are to be the lead, or there is no show.
You sleep with many of the other newcomers in a dormitory. When the script is found missing, your things are rifled through. More accusations. More blame flung your way.
You take it with a quiet dignity. After two days, Vargas breaks.
“Fine! The newcomer shall be the lead,” he spits, throwing his hands in the air, shouting his surrender to the empty theatre. “But the rest of the cast is my choice!”
Bruno returns the script that very night.
*
By proxy of your new status as lead, you also get a better room.
People do not seem to like this. Bruno wonders if he thought this whole situation out properly. He wanted to give you an opportunity, not make your life more miserable.
But rehearsals begin, and you soon prove yourself to them, impressing them just as much as you impressed Bruno. Angelo is playing the lead opposite you, of course. Bruno has resigned that these roles will fall into his hands. He does not like the way Angelo hovers around you, but there is little he can do to make it stop.
Every day you rehearse onstage, and every night you practise in your bedroom. You pace the floor, as if you were treading the boards in earnest - speaking your lines aloud, pausing, trying a different delivery, continuing. It’s enchanting.
He watches all the lead actors when they rehearse. You aren’t special, not in that regard anyway. That’s what he tells himself as he watches you through a crack in the plaster of your wall.
You pause in your speech. Bruno holds his breath. Has he written something wrong? Something you don’t like? He could rewrite, if you—
“I know you’re here.” You speak the words loudly into the air, but there’s calm about you.
There is nobody else in the room.
Bruno’s heart drops through the floor.
You are talking to him.
He runs.
*
There’s a man in the theatre pretending to be a ghost.
Of course there is.
Ghosts don’t exist.
‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’
The theatre is vast, but it is not infinite.
It takes you a week of searching to find him.
*
Bruno is making his way through the walls, muttering to himself. Maybe he should do some rewrites. He was happy with the romance scenes in theory, but now, watching you on the stage with Angelo, the way you hold back your discomfort whenever he takes you in his arms… perhaps he should make them less… touchy . The idea of you, so uncomfortable, it makes him –
He’s so busy thinking about you, he doesn’t notice that you’re in front of him.
Bruno collides with you hard, sending you sprawling back into the dust. He’s not touched someone for so long - let alone run into them - that he cannot find the ability to give you a hand up, instead he just watches in absolute awe as you get to your feet yourself.
“So you must be the ghost, huh?”
He has two options.
He could talk to you. You might understand. That it was a dramatic series of misfortunes that brought him here. That he didn’t want all of this to happen, not really - but it just sort of, well, did. And that he wants the best for you despite the impromptu way he’s gone about it.
Or he could run.
He runs.
*
Unfortunately, you are faster.
*
“Dios mío! Stop!”
You grab the hood of his ruana, and choke him to a pause. When you realise the pain you’ve accidentally caused him, your face is flooded with remorse.
“Sorry, sorry. Just, why did you run?”
Bruno massages the place where the bruises will probably form soon. To be fair, you do look quite guilty.
He’s a writer, but it’s funny:
“Nobody’s talked to me for years,” are all the words he can find to answer.
You cock your head to the side.
“Oh.”
He scrambles for something to say.
“Would you like to come over?”
That is how Bruno finds himself with you investigating his little home, tucked away in the corner of the abandoned basement prop room. You seem remarkably calm about it all. You don’t comment on the fact he lives down here. You merely cast an appraising eye over his furniture - the chair, the single bed, the desk piled high with paper - and, when you’re finished, give it an approving nod.
“So why did you cast me?” you ask, not wanting to beat around the bush. You sit heavily on his bed, absolutely at ease with him.
Why aren’t you more scared? He’s strange. This is strange.
Bruno stammers out his answer.
“You have a lot of potential. And they aren’t fair here to the newcomers. I didn’t want to see your talent get hidden under other people’s egos.”
You laugh.
“You mean Angelo?”
He didn’t even have to say the name and you know. He winces at how transparent he’s being.
“Any of them, really. You deserved a fighting chance.”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“And it was only because of that?”
Bruno nods, solemn. It was.
The fact you’re gorgeous is merely an added bonus.
There is an aching silence, and Bruno thinks he’d prefer to rip his own fingernails out rather than wait in this.
Then you nod.
“Alright.”
Bruno can feel his bones turn to jelly, as he faces the possibility of returning to a life of solitude again.
“So, I’ll meet you here tomorrow evening?”
He makes a little noise of shock, and you burst out laughing.
“Look, Vargas is the director. But you’re the writer. I want to hear what you think of my performance.”
The way you’re looking at him, Bruno feels his soul relent back any argument he might have been concocting.
“Tomorrow.”
*
Angelo corners you the next day after rehearsal, as you’re packing your script away.
“I thought we did some amazing work today. You really fed off my energy,” he tells you. You don’t really listen to him too intently, instead pulling your bag onto your back.
“Yep! See you tomorrow.”
He blinks.
“Wait!”
You hesitate, looking up at him with utter confusion.
He is also confused. You are the first person not to be reduced to a giggling mess by him just saying hello for… well, a long time.
“Did you want to swing by my suite later? We could rehearse some more together, maybe have a drink.”
You frown.
“We’re going to rehearse tomorrow though?”
He’s left floundering by your rejection, and you take it as him having nothing more to say. You wave goodbye and disappear into the guts of the teatro . To Bruno’s domain.
*
“How was that?” you ask, looking to Bruno for some sort of response.
He was so swept up in your performance, all he can do is blink owlishly. You’re amazing . You bring his words to life in a way he never thought they could be. Everything you do is with a grace and artistry that blows him away. You’re going to be the best lead this theatre has ever had.
“Yeah, really good,” is what he settles on. You smile, and it pierces his heart. “I’ll uh, I’ll think about it and give you some notes.” He has to give you something, after all. So you don’t feel you’re coming down here for nothing.
Because you’re only visiting him for his professional opinion, right?
“Brilliant! I’ll be back tomorrow, then.”
He doesn’t expect you to keep your word, but you do. You come back tomorrow.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
And at the sight of your grinning face meeting him, ‘tomorrow’ starts to become his favourite day.