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Scar enters from stage left, adorned in orange and cyan silk. Grian takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He’s practised this scene with Pearl, he knows it inside out. It’s— there is no reason why his heart should be racing the way it is. It’s just a scene. ( The scene, the voice in his head helpfully reminds him. He tells it to shut up.)
“He jests at scars that never felt a wound…” his partner— stage partner— begins, eyes sparkling at the unspoken joke. Oh, that Scar had never felt a wound, more like.
And that’s his cue. Grian adjusts the collar of his leather coat, (it doesn’t fit Ren, stepping in as Tybalt in his stead, and as it’s a symbol of the Capulets he figures he may as well keep it,) stepping into the stage lights, leaning on the balcony railing and gazing out at the back wall of the theatre. He pushes his anxiety to one side. He only has once chance to run this scene before opening night, and if he’s going to get some useful notes from Ren, who’s currently sitting at the centre of the rows of chairs lining the floor of the black box space, he’s got to give it his all.
He can’t see Scar, but he’s watched the scene being run enough to know the way his castmate’s face lights up by heart, filled with such unabashed awe it’s like his skin glows. “But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.” Grian, the sun, feigns picking at the worn cuff of his jacket as an excuse to glance down, watching Scar as he crosses the stage, crouching behind a potted plant as he brings a hand to his chest. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green and none but fools do wear it; cast it off.”
As Scar speaks, Grian notices the lights slowly changing from a cool wash to something warmer. And— oh, the warmth is stronger on stage right, that’s new. His lip quirks. Etho’s outdone himself.
Scar all but commando rolls to hide behind the next prop, a park bench, is eyes never quite leaving Grian. “It is my lady, oh, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!”
Grian grimaces, his index finger tapping on the railing, muttering something under his breath. He knows Pearl’s words of choice used to be ‘giveusmorefundingsaywhat’ . Grian opts for: ‘stupidscarwithhisstupidabs’ .
Scar watches him, gaze soft. “She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it—!“
On cue, Grian begins to look his way, and Scar immediately scrambles back into hiding. Grian decides to mess with him, his gaze lingering for a beat longer than Pearl’s used to, watching Scar flounder, running his fingers through wavy oil-styled hair (Gem’s done a truly fantastic job), hoping he’s not been spotted, peering through the slats in the bench. Grian watches with playful satisfaction out of the corner of his eye as his scene partner’s cheeks seem to grow a flustered sort of pink (although it could be thanks to the lights, couldn’t it?), before looking away.
Scar lets out a small sigh of relief, his voice a little more high-pitched than usual. “I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks…” The words die away as he leans his arms on the back of the bench, which creaks quietly, and the tension he was holding before melts away. “Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night.”
Grian smiles softly at the way Scar says the line. It’s one of his favourites to hear him say. Scar rarely leans into iambic pentameter with much consistency — he has enough trouble mixing his words around as is — but something about the rhythm of those words seems to settle into the timbre of his voice and makes them flow seamlessly, like a quick-moving river, like an equation being solved.
There’s a long beat of silence, and— oh, right. He makes another noise of general frustration, resting his elbows on the railing and his head in both his hands, staring into the lights with the pout of someone who’s being driven slightly insane. Scar’s next line is probably intended to imply a more delicate gesture, but Shakespeare is dead and Ren thought it was funny and Pearl would be proud.
And that combined with the genuinely starstruck look Scar is able to muster sends someone watching— Tango , he knows that sound— into a fit of laughter. Scar speaks over it: “See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”
There’s the faint sound of birds chirping in the silence. Grian lets Mumbo’s soundscape fill the space for a moment, building a sense of anticipation.
His line, strictly speaking, is ‘Ay me’.
But the cast has unanimously agreed: this is what Will would have wanted.
Grian groans, bowing his head with his wrists braced on the balcony railing, before exploding upwards, gesturing with his hands in frustration.
“Oh, fuck me!”
(Tragically, Pearl’s original version of the line, ‘Oh, fuck me with a spoon!’, had been vetoed by Ren and Martyn, despite the strict adherence to iambic meter.)
There’s a series of laughs from the crew and cast members watching, and a howl from Tango, cut off once again by the lovestruck Scar, gasping as if Grian’s delicate words have left him breathless: “She speaks!”
There’s another small fit of laughter: out of the corner of his eye Grian sees Impulse whisper something to Bdubs and they both keel over, trying to stay quiet. Grian bites his tongue. Don’t break don’t break don’t break—
“ Oh , speak again, bright angel!” Scar continues, unfazed, approaching the balcony. “For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head as is a winged messenger of heaven, unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air.”
There’s another moment of quiet.
Here it is: the line Grian’s been dreading most. It’s so well known and so oft-said, half the meaning lost to the majority of audience members, and he never feels he quite nails the delivery. He grits his teeth. This is what the sense of pent-up anger throughout the scene has been building to. Juliet’s been going through the five stages of grief about her deeply inconvenient crush, he’s decided, and she’s allowed to have a bit of anger, as a treat.
“Romeo, Romeo,” he says, drily. “Wherefore art thou Romeo ?”
He begins to pace, back and forth across the balcony.
“Deny thy father, and refuse thy name. Or, if you wilt not be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a capulet.”
There’s a quiet murmur from Scar, who’s beginning to creep out from behind the bench. “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?”
“Tis but thy name that is my enemy,” Grian huffs, glaring daggers at in the general direction of the tech table. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing as Mumbo visibly stiffens in his seat. Then he sighs, exasperated. “Thou art myself, though not a Montague. And what’s Montague ?” He spits, with the intent to imply at least one curse into that sentiment. “It is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor…” he pauses, biting his lip. “Any other part belonging to a man.”
There’s a whoop from the audience, belonging to Scott.
Grian barely gives the sound space to breathe, unwilling to compromise the momentum of the scene. “ Oh , be some other name!” he pleads, staring up into the lights. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; so Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, retain that perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name which is no part of thee, take all myself,” he finishes, draping himself over the balcony as melodramatically as he can manage. Juliet is, fundamentally, an angst-ridden teenager after all.
He jumps with a start as Scar calls out from behind the bench. “I take thee at thy word! Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptised. Henceforth, I never will be Romeo,” he quips.
Grian’s eyes dart across the empty stage, backing away slowly from the balcony ledge, scandalised. “What— what man art thou that thus bescreen’d in night so stumblest on my counsel?”
Scar’s voice sounds warm, yet sheepish. “By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, would tear the word.”
He swallows, letting his expression shift from something fearful to an anxious sort of hope. “My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound,” he says quietly. “Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?”
“Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike!”
Grian bites the inside of his cheek again. “How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?” he calls out, Scar still not quite visible to him. “The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here.”
And Scar emerges from a bush, eyes bright as he looks up at Grian. Grian coughs quietly to cover a laugh— did he always have a twig in his hair in this scene? When did that get there? Scar approaches the balcony with a dreamy expression that feels— he knows Scar’s a good actor, but gosh does he know how to make himself seem so in love he’s sick with it. “With love’s light wings I did o’er-perch these walls,” he smiles, making the motion of hopping over a small rock as he leans on his cane like a pole vault, and Grian covers his mouth with his hand, letting a genuine laugh escape him. Oh, Scar. It’s such a good detail that he adds, every time. He had to use his chair for the last dress run, and the way used it to spin in a circle, it’s brilliant . How exactly Romeo scaled the orchard wall may remain a mystery, but with the physical comedy Scar adds with his aids it’s an extremely entertaining thought.
Scar goes on with a smirk: “For stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt. Therefore, thy kinsmen are no let to me.”
Grian’s voice is terse with worry. “If they see thee, they will murder thee.”
“Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords!” Scar says easily, still appraising Grian like he’s the goddamn sun. “Thou look but sweet. And I am proof against their enmity.”
“I would not for the world they saw thee here,” he murmurs, wistful.
And Scar remains relentlessly cheerful, his voice light as he pulls his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and dons them as he crouches low, with all the dramatic flair of a fine art major. “But I have night’s cloak to hid me from their sight! And thou but love me, let them find me here!” he grins. He pulls his prop knife from his pocket and feigns stabbing himself, stumbling back into the wall of the house and looking up at Grian with a wild grin. “My life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.”
Grian sighs. Oh, Scar. “By whose direction found’st thou out this place?”
Scar blinks adorably, spinning around to face Grian properly, looking up at him as he sheaths the knife again. “By love, who first did prompt me to inquire. He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot. Yet, wert thou as far as that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, would adventure for such merchandise.”
Grian lets himself smile. “Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek.” (Nevermind the fact that Grian is blushing. The lights are warm. Or something.) “For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight, fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny what I have spoke.” He smirks, hoisting one leg over the balcony, reaching for a ladder propped against the wall, dropping down to the stage floor, in front of Scar, fixing him with a mischievous look. “But farewell, compliment.”
Scar’s eyes light up ever brighter, sparkling with hope, but Grian cuts him off before he can speak with a sharp look and begins to circle him, hands pushed into his pockets.
“Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘Ay’ ,” he says smoothly, putting one finger to Scar’s lips as the other begins to answer, and Grian swears he sees him blush. (The lights . It must be the lights.) He swallows, unable to dwell on it, monologuing as he withdraws his hand and resumes circling Scar like a vulture. “And I will take thy word. Yet if thou swear’st, thou mayst prove false. At lovers perjuries, they say, Jove laughs . Oh, gentle Romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.”
Scar nods, opening his mouth once more, but Grian arches an eyebrow, facing him with his arms crossed. “ Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won, I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay , so thou will woo.” Then he softens, stepping forward, hesitating for a brief moment as he feels his cheeks redden before gently holding Scar’s wrists, looking up at him. “But else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, and therefore thou mayst think my ‘haviour light.”
Scar is gazing back, all but holding his breath. Grian steps a little closer, thumb tracing patterns on his wrist. They haven’t— they haven’t really talked though the blocking for this scene beyond the use of the ladder, but this isn’t too extreme, right? Even if his heart is hammering in his chest like it’s some kind of big deal, a small touch like this is extremely tame by college theatre standards, and Scar tends to be quite physical with his stage partners— anyway . He swallows, smiling timidly up at Scar. “But trust me, gentleman…I’ll prove more true than those that have more coying to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, but that thou overheard’st, ere I was ‘ware, my true love’s passion.” Grian sighs, before taking a step back, folding his hands in front of him with a small bow. “Therefore pardon me, and not impute this yielding to light love, which the dark night hath so discovered.”
Scar smiles at him steadily, grounding. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Something along the lines of you worry too much, overthink too much. Something familiar. “Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—”
“Oh, swear not by the moon!” Grian whines, with almost childlike petulance. He steps up close to Scar again, taking both of his hands, shaking them. “The inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb! Lest that thy love prove likewise.”
And Scar laughs, warm and genuine. “What shall I swear by?”
Grian frowns. He considers their joined hands, before smiling and letting them go. “Do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight. It—“
Scar starts to speak, taking a step forward, but Grian takes a step back, planting his hands on Scar’s shoulders. “It is too rash!” he insists. ”Too unadvised, too sudden. Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say, ‘it lightens’.”
Scar says nothing — he has no written line here. But he takes Grian’s hand in his. He holds it, gently, as if it’s something fragile. Grian’s completely blindsided as he feels a pang in his chest. Oh, Scar.
He places his other hand over Scar’s, squeezing it reassuringly. His voice is soft as he finishes his line. “Sweet, good night…”
Aah. This is the part of the scene where Scar and Pearl would’ve. You know.
He sees Scar give an imperceptible nod, eyes locked with his.
Grian takes a deep breath, and then places his hands on Scar’s neck (and the stupid silk shirt is far too soft and far too flattering on Scar’s chest), leaning forward to give him a soft peck at the corner of his lip. Scar doesn’t take his eyes off Grian as he pulls back, looking completely caught. Enrapt. Grian swallows thickly, taking a step backward again. “This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flower when we next meet.”
They stare at each other. They don’t say anything. There’s nothing but the dawn soundscape and the hum of the theatre lights.
Again?
Another slow, deliberate incline of Scar’s head. Yes— yeah. Best not to change the original blocking.
Both of them rush forward to meet the other and— ow , that’s Scar’s nose, but this is their only dress rehearsal and they’re hardly going to waste the cast’s time rehearsing a kiss, so he makes the best of it, tilting his head and sucking gently on Scar’s upper lip. Scar returns the kiss eagerly and Grian is not mad about his commitment to the bit, shuddering as the other’s tongue traces his teeth. He winds his hands into that stupid sexy shirt, taking what he can, because fuck it , if it’s too much he can also hide behind the guise of committing to the bit, and when will he get the chance to do this again? Tomorrow night, maybe, and the next one, and the next —
And Scar’s hand slips under his jacket, pushing it off his shoulder, revealing—scandalously—a bit more his red jumper. One of Grian’s hands find the hair at the nape of Scar’s neck and he pulls gently as he licks deeper into Scar’s mouth, relishing the small whine the other makes as he pulls back, breathless.
They gaze at each other, panting quietly.
Grian wants to kiss him again.
What were they doing?
Oh, right.
Fuck.
Grian stares at Scar, his heart racing. Oh, he’s gone for him. Completely and utterly gone.
He’s in love with his Romeo.
Shit. Shit shit shit—
It’s fine. It’s fine! He’s— he’s method acting! His stupid dumb crush on Scar that he wishes he didn’t have, why did it have to be Scar , why did it have to be Romeo — it’ll make the show better! As long as he says his lines and—
His lines.
He has a line here.
Oh, shit, he can’t forget his line now. All of this romantic gaze-holding and breath-catching could be chalked up to their excellent chemistry (as actors, they are acting) if he doesn’t forget his line. Nothing comes to him. His mind is blank.
Oh, fuck me!
Scar watches his face, carefully. Then, taking Grian entirely by surprise, he dives back in.
Grian lets out a small squeak as Scar kisses him a third time, oh this is the best and the worst moment of his life, the kiss is deep and hard and quick and heat pools deliciously in Grian’s gut even though he knows it shouldn’t, before Scar pulls back and presses a few more small kisses to his cheekbone, whispering: “Goodnight, goodnight, as sweet repose…”
Grian’s breath hitches.
The line .
He sends a silent thanks to Scar, before pushing him away by his shoulders, blushing but decisive, in character. “Goodnight, goodnight!” he says breathily, giddy, forcing a smile despite the pit of oh no oh fuck in his stomach. “As— as sweet repose and rest come to thy heart as that within my breast.”
Grian begins to take a step back, about to go up the ladder once more, but jumps as Scar follows him and pushes him gently into the wall, looming over him. His right hand is braced against the side of the ladder, leaving an escape path for Grian that opens him up to the audience, not obscuring their vision. Oh, this is— this is an excellent blocking choice. Did Scar and Pearl work this out? He doesn’t remember seeing it before. Now he just needs to remember how to act. And speak. And breathe.
Scar smirks down at him. “Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? ”
Grian swallows. Oh. That’s.
Oh.
His conscious brain flatlines, and when comes back online a few moments later, it’s to take stock of the feeling of Scar’s warm lips against his. He’s pulled Scar into another kiss.
He feels his face burn with embarrassment that he— he made a move on his stage partner without meaning to— he desperately recites his next line in his head as Scar’s mouth moves against his so he doesn’t lose focus and forget again. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight— Scar flattens his tongue against the roof of his mouth and makes Grian see stars. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight— Scar presses closer and Grian’s head slowly tilts back until it knocks against the ladder with a quiet ‘thunk’, and Grian grips one of the rungs on the off chance his legs are about to give out. What satisfaction canst thou— Scar nudges Grian’s inner thigh with his knee and oh, fuck me, the leather motorcycle pants might have been a mistake as a costume choice because it really doesn’t take much for them to grow extremely tight. What satisfaction canst thou— his mind drifts to every time he told Scar off for not having a shirt on in the dressing room and he’s regretting how he never appreciated he view—
What satisfaction canst thou— what satisfaction—
It’s the sudden sound of the air con coming on that snaps him out of it.
Grian reluctantly but decisively breaks the kiss, ducking out of Scar’s reach, his chest aching as if Scar’s lips no longer being pressed against his is a greater tragedy than the stupid play’s stupid ending. But he still needs to finish the scene. He needs to— be needs to hide his true self away and say his lines and stop making out with his castmate in front of their friends.
He looks at Scar.
Scar— shit. Scar’s not acting. Grian sees the shift as clear as day. Scar is staring at him with a look of disbelief and panic and wonder and it’s like looking in the world’s most devastating mirror.
Shit.
They’re both doomed.
(Does that mean the kiss was real?)
Grian swallows thickly. He needs to—
kiss him! kiss him again!
— get the scene back on track. Calm down. They could— they could work with this. Reframe the scene, emotionally. Romeo presses Juliet against a wall and teases her, Juliet can’t stop herself from kissing him and they both lose themselves for a moment. Both of them come up for air and realise the weight of what they’ve done. They’ve fallen for each other, completely and utterly, and if the story of Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet is to end in tragedy this was the point of no return, the crossing of the threshold. They’ve passed it. This is the moment they become doomed by the narrative, and they’ve both just realised it.
Or something.
The rest of the scene is usually light. Playful.
Not this run.
This run the scene is buried under a layer of oh shit, what have we done.
Grian bites his tongue, grabbing Scar’s shirt and burying his face in it. He feels Scar stiffen against him, before fingers wind through his hair, an arm curling around his back and oh, that’s lovely. Kissing be damned, he would never kiss Scar again if he could stay here forever. He lets out a shuddery breath, tilting his head so the line isn’t muffled by Scar’s shirt, choking on his own voice as if through tears.
“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”
He feels Scar’s hand still. Processing the subtext. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? What satisfaction canst thou have, with the weight of the narrative hanging over us? What satisfaction canst thou have, when this could so easily all go wrong? What satisfaction canst thou have, when we’re so hopelessly in love we would give up our lives for each other? What satisfaction canst thou have, when I’m destined to hold you as you die, and follow you moments after?
For a few moments, there is stillness. Then Scar places a gentle kiss to Grian’s hair, and leans so he can see Grian’s face, tilting his chin upwards.
And for a moment, as Grian first catches a glimpse of Scar, his skin is grey and his shirt is gone there’s sun and sand and sky and a ring of cacti and the smell of cloth burning and Grian destined to hold him as he dies, and follow him moments after.
And before he can figure out what that means, the Scar he knows in the black box theatre snaps back into view. Scar raises one hand to brush his thumb over Grian’s lower lip and oh my god, he could die. Grian could actually die. That’s not supposed to happen until the end of the play. Scar smiles, bittersweet. His eyes are round, vulnerable, and achingly soft. “Th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine?”
Oh, Scar— oh Romeo. (Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou— wherefore art thou Scar? ) He just wants to be loved, despite it all. Grian holds his gaze, his voice small. “I gave thee mine before thou didst request it. And yet, I would it were to give again.”
Scar pouts. “Wouldst thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?”
“But to be frank, and give it thee again,” he replies, allowing his heart to melt, leaning up onto his toes to give Scar a small kiss on the cheek. He grins as he sees Scar’s cheeks go pink, feeling a rush of something to his head. “And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”
There’s a small pause. They stare at each other. There’s birds and dawn and the hum of the lights and Scar’s eyes, never leaving his.
And then, there’s the voice of Sausage, offstage: “Juliet!”
Grian freezes. It’s like being dunked in cold water. “I— I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu—“ he says, hurriedly, and then over his shoulder: “Ah— Anon , good Nurse!”
He glances back at Scar just in time to catch him winking at him as he begins to slink offstage.
Grian swallows hard.
Oh, fuck me.