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narzissuz · 1 day ago

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propt list #3 the theatre au with choscar???? those boys are built for the stage

prompt 3: theatre AU where one character is trying to goad the other character out of the bathroom and onto the stage from where they are crying in the bathroom because they're on in 5.

I didn't edit this as harshly as I usually do w my stuff, so I'm sorry some bits are rushed and weirdly paced. I know next to nothing abt theatre so 😭 ntm on me

here's 3.6k of sound tech oscar & lead actor charles ^^

“Where the fuck is Charles?” Max is demanding, as Oscar rounds the corner. “Fucking—we’re on in fifteen and nobody has seen him?!”

“He was getting changed, I don’t know,” Lando says defensively, hurriedly shrugging on his waistcoat. “Mate, I’ve got to—Carlos! Carlos, have you seen my script? Carlos!”

Frazzled, Carlos almost gets his eye poked out by a makeup brush when he turns, then nearly trips over an intern, who looks seconds away from bursting into tears. “How many times have I been telling you to keep it in your pocket, Lando,” Carlos scolds. A cloud of powder bursts, and about five people fall into coughing fits. Carlos screws his face up, turning back with a foul twist to his mouth, but the makeup girl has already fled to pursue her next victim—poor, unsuspecting Kimi.

Oscar pushes his hair back off his sweaty forehead, and for the fifteenth time this hour, he thanks his lucky stars he’s only working Sound. Max looks like he’s about to brain someone with his clipboard, Ollie is hyperventilating under the prop table, and apparently Charles, their leading man, has fucked off to Timbuktu. It’ll be a miracle if Oscar makes it out of this without grey hairs.

“Oscar!”

Christ, Oscar thinks, and pulls his headset to the side. Not that he really needs to. His mum probably heard Max back in Melbourne.

“Yeah?”

If stress had a picture in the dictionary, it would be Max.

“Are you busy?” Max bulldozes on, “I need—fucking Charles! He’s waltzed off, and curtains are up in—” he jerkily consults his watch, and his eyes go wide and despairing. “Fuck!”

“You want me to, uh,” Oscar, for some stupid reason, looks around, like Max could be talking to someone else. “I mean, wouldn’t Pierre—?”

“No!” Max snaps, whirling around, to where Yuki is lounging on the stage apparatus. “Yuki! If you fall from there—”

He storms off in a cloud of furious anxiety, and Oscar sighs. He never should have allowed Logan to convince him this would be fun. He’s sweating in places no man should sweat. He’s ninety perfect stage glitter. He’s got a raging headache, and it’s not even six thirty. This? This is not fun.

“Don’t just stand there!” Max yells, face red, Yuki thrown over his shoulder. Pierre has his phone out, recording. God, Oscar does not want to know. “We’re on in fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen!”

Oscar closes his eyes, dumps his headset on the stack of chairs tucked in the corner, and goes to find Charles.

He checks the dressing rooms first. They’re closest to the stage, in a little deserted corridor, where the air is much cooler, free of the chemical stench of hairspray. Oscar takes his first breath free of rancid floral perfume and knocks twice on the door. Pushes it open.

“Er.”

“Oscar!” Alex says shrilly,

Slowly, Oscar glances down, where George’s shirt is chucked. The room is a right state, feathers flung everywhere, tins and bottles of fuck knows what uncapped over the counter, lipstick smeared over the mirrors. It’s what the house looked like when Hattie had her first date. Oscar’s never really forgiven her for smearing eyeliner on his favourite shirt.

Staring at the floor inevitably leads him back to Alex’s bare ankles, then Alex’s bare legs, then Alex’s—

Politely, Oscar averts his eyes. George makes a sound like a drowned cat.

Eyes on the prize. Not—whatever this is. “Have either of you seen Charles?”

“Charles?” Alex repeats weakly. “Oscar. Are you serious?”

Right. Bit of a stupid question, really. Only thing Alex has seen recently is George’s tonsils.

“Sorry,” Oscar drums his fingers against the doorframe. “Er. I would say carry on, but, like…”

“Mate,” George finds his voice, crimson all the way down his chest. His naked chest. Because his shirt is on the floor. With Alex’s trousers. “Can you get out?”

“Charles?” Liam frowns, or, well. Oscar thinks he’s frowning. Hard to tell over the stack of boxes towering over him, and, subsequently, his face. “Nah, mate. Haven’t seen him. D’you mind—?”

“Oh—” Oscar steps out the way, and Liam grunts his thanks. “Sorry. Do you know where he might be?”

He doesn’t fancy being guillotined today, which is probably the fate that awaits him if he returns to Max empty handed. It’s looking more and more likely, though, the more rooms Oscar pokes his head into, only to find them distressingly absent of Charles.

How many places are there for someone like Charles to hide? Oscar has never seen him without an entourage loudly announcing his presence for all the building to hear, or one of his fifteen hefty instrument cases, or his ten million rattling keychains. You can hear Charles coming from the other side of campus—quite literally. But with Oscar’s life literally dangling in the balance, magically, Charles is nowhere to be found.

“The café, maybe?” Liam suggests, distracted. “I don’t know. Saw a few of the extras coming back from there. He might have gone with them, you know what Charles is like.”

Indeed, Oscar knows what Charles is like. A breeze, maybe, or a windchime. There one minute, gone the next; chasing the next daydream, as all the artsy types are wont to do.

To Oscar, who lives his life amongst zeros and ones, Charles could not be more of an antithesis.

“Thanks!” he calls after Liam’s strained back.

Liam lets go of his stack to stick his thumb up, and Oscar is halfway down the corridor when he hears a catastrophic crash, and a fervent, loud curse.

He winces and hurries down the corridor.

He doesn’t find Charles in the café, but Oscar does pilfer a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and that’s pretty good, too. Logan only stocks Monster—‘doesn’t believe’ in coffee—so Oscar has been cut off from his source of sweet, disgusting, real caffeine for weeks. Honestly, as he peers into the coatroom, Oscar thinks it might be worth getting flayed alive for this. Silver linings, and whatnot.

Mark, his student advisor, would weep with joy at his newfound optimistic streak.

As Oscar sets his empty cup on the carpet and reaches for the bathroom door, it swings open on him. Franco nods in greeting, in full costume. Never in Oscar’s life has he ever seen a tie knotted that sloppily. And are those—hickeys?

“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” Franco grimaces. Lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “Someone is having a, uhhh…” He twirls a finger by his temple and whistles. Stares at Oscar expectantly.

“Um,” Oscar says.

“Yes,” Franco nods, “So. Break his leg, or whatever the saying is.”

He proceeds to pat Oscar on the shoulder and stroll leisurely away. His shirt is untucked at the waistband. Oscar considers the absurd state of his life. And of his bladder, because he really needs a piss, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with a mental breakdown, and really, none of this would be happening without Logan. This is all his fault. Oscar will be sure to tell Max that, when he’s forced to turn up with his tail between his legs and without the star of the show. Surely, Max will understand.

Max will not understand, Oscar thinks with dread. Max is an easy-going guy usually, but not when it comes to theatre. He runs the club like the damn navy SEALs. Rumours say he kicked Lewis Hamilton out of his own play for being three seconds late to dress rehearsal. Oscar is so dead, it isn’t even funny.

With a deep breath, arming for war, Oscar pushes open the door and slips inside, and it’s—quiet. Nobody is wailing. It’s just a normal bathroom. If the far stall door wasn’t closed, Oscar would have had no idea someone else was here at all.

Warily, he approaches the urinal. Why he’s bracing for someone or something to leap out of the stall and eat him, he isn’t sure. He’s severely anaemic. Nothing wants to eat him.

Oscar is washing his hands, already thinking about where to check for Charles next, when his peripherals snag on a spike of light. Oscar's head jerks, nearly gives himself a nasty crick.

Lando swears on his nan’s grave he got knifed in the loo once. Oscar has no desire to follow in his footsteps, and—today is not going to be that day, he realises in relief. There’s no Nike tracksuit and balaclava lunging for him; it’s a keyring, laying on the floor, beneath the shut stall door. A whole host of them.

A mini silver microphone, he notices, somewhat absently, as he rips off a square of paper towel. A prancing horse, a tiny dog, a shark. One of the souvenir types, with a worn French-looking word painted on the fin. A homemade chain of red-white beads, and a CL. A Lion King the musical pendant.

Red-white beads, and a CL, Oscar thinks, and freezes.

In any good story game, there comes a pivotal moment in the plot where the character is faced with a panel of critical dialogue options. Standing like the standing man emoji in front of a regular, unimposing loo, Oscar searches the crossroads ahead.

Number one: clear his throat as un-awkwardly as he can and tell Charles that he needs to crawl out before Oscar is nailed six feet under. Probably insensitive if Charles is having a breakdown, and Oscar doesn’t feel like informing Charles that his best friend, who is a loving dad to three cats and two dogs, is most definitely an axe murderer in another life.

Number two: send Charles a text. A very good option, Oscar thinks, but his phone is out of power and—he doesn’t have Charles’ number in the first place. He can count on one hand the amount of meaningful interactions he’s had with Charles since meeting him. Which isn’t to say they aren’t friendly. Charles is friendly with everyone. Oscar, like most poor souls, is more than a little in love with him, in a, like. In a cool, chill, low-key way. He isn’t leaving love letters in Charles’ bag. Or baking him brownies. Oscar is too broke to buy ninety pence ramen, let alone eggs.

Number three (and this one is the worst, but also the most feasible): knock on the door and coax Charles out himself.

Okay, Oscar thinks, nodding pacifyingly to himself. Okay. Splitting things into chunks didn’t help, so he’ll divide it further.

Pros to number three: he lives to see another day. The show goes on, hopefully without a hitch, and Oscar can assuage the guilty conscious he’ll inevitably develop if he scurries off and leaves Charles here.

Cons: literally everything else, but especially the concept of—a crying Charles. Who probably needs reassurance. Reassurance Oscar is infamously bad for supplying.

(Lando came to rehearsals the other week red-eyed and teary over the death of his hamster, and Oscar asked him if he accidentally put it through the washing machine. Because, well, in his defence, he’s heard it was a common way hamsters die, and he likes collecting data, but apparently, Logan explained patiently, it was a little—a lot—tactless. And whatever Oscar does, he should never ever become a grief councillor, God, please.)

A hitching sniffle bounces off the tiles, and Oscar’s choice is taken out of his hands.

“Charles?” he clears his throat, apprehensively rubbing the pads of his fingers together. “Um. Is that—is that you?”

There is a very long moment of silence, in which Oscar tries not to lose his nerve and flee, and Charles tries to pretend he doesn’t exist. Neither of those work out too well.

And then, “Please go,” Charles begs thickly, “I will—I’ll—”

His voice cracks, and there’s a wet gasp, and Oscar closes his eyes, physically pained. He wishes he was literally any other person in the world right now, or at least one who wasn’t a catastrophic failure at human connection.

Max wants you, Oscar goes to say, and pauses. Thinks. He doesn’t want to give Charles the impression he’s only here for Max, even though that is… the reason Oscar is doing this. It doesn’t feel nice when you think you’re a chore for someone, Oscar knows that.

Okay, see, he’s doing such a good job. Just a little bit more.

“Is—er. Can I help… with anything? Would you—” Oscar hesitates, “Do you want to, um. Do you want to talk about it? Or can I—get someone?”

“No! No, don’t get anybody,” Charles says frantically, a jingle of his keychains as his bag is shuffled. “I’m fine, I’m—this is just. I am having a little break, I will be fine, you can go now. Please.” Ruining the effect, Charles’ voice breaks, and a panicked sob wavers beneath the door, reverberates between the walls, and pings directly into Oscar’s brain.

Torn, Oscar chews the nail off his pinky finger and stares at the bronze hinge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe. Or a manual on how to fix a crying person, like they give you in toy sets. Insert battery here. Take out this screw. Press button. All done. Neat and tidy and perfunctory, a perfect sequence of xyz working in expected harmony.

There is no manual for what to do when your sort-of crush, sort-of acquaintance is sobbing in the bathroom, less than ten minutes before a show.

“I won’t tell anyone?” Oscar tries. He winces at his own flat awkwardness. Christ, he wouldn’t confide in himself either. “I mean, I’m a pretty good listener, and…a problem shared is a problem halved?”

Fuck, just kill him. Just shoot him. That did not seriously come out of his mouth. He sounds like his mum.

But, miracle of all miracles, despite the overwhelming odds, Charles says, whiney with hysteria, “I am being stupid, this is all. We’ve practised lots and I know all my lines and I know I will be good, but—but maybe I will not be, and Arthur said he will come, and—and he will—he will make fun of me!”

Oscar still remembers Edie’s giggle fit when she saw him in his donkey costume for the first time ahead of his Year Two nativity. Siblings are evil like that.

“What if I say something wrong, or I trip and break my nose and get blood all over everywhere, and what if I have to kiss Alex with the bone sticking out of my face and—and it gets in her eye and she dies?” Charles wails, and Oscar holds his breath, so he doesn’t do something majorly stupid, like snort.

“That probably won’t happen,” he assures, dropping his jacket on the floor. Oscar nudges it open with his toe, and folds to take a seat. They’re probably going to be here for a while. “Everything will be fine. You’re a good actor, and Alex is a good actress, and everyone’s—you’ve all practiced a lot, haven’t you? So anything that will go wrong, you’ll probably know how to fix it, right?”

“But what if I forget?” Charles insists, “Or what if someone else will forget? And all these people will be staring at me!”

People are usually staring at Charles. Really, Oscar thinks, he could perform thirty minutes of an algebraic lecture, and the audience would still be watching, enraptured, by the end of it.

Logically, Oscar points out, “I’ve watched all the rehearsals, and I know you’re going to do great.”

“You know?” Charles sniffles doubtfully. “How can you know? So many things can go wrong, and I will never live this down, and my whole life will be ruined and buried and it will have all been for nothing, and what if I am really just so bad and they throw tomatoes at me and I get kicked out and have to live on Maman’s sofa for the rest of my life—”

Damage control, Oscar flails. Damage control, damage control—

“I think you’re pretty neat,” he blurts, painfully earnest. Might as well have wriggled his heart out from between his ribs and pushed it under the door, Jesus. “I mean. You’re—um.”

Like when he finally solves whatever’s causing his code not to run, and his chest loosens, and the universe unfurls beyond the gloominess of college work, and Oscar remembers that actually, the world is full of beautiful, lovely things, and he wants to bunch all of them in his stomach at once, so he remembers always.

Oscar blinks. Okay, no. He can’t say that. But it’s true. Charles is lovely and beautiful, and he pours into life like sunshine, and Oscar’s crush on him, perhaps, is not so small. Even though Charles has only ever said hi and good morning to him, and also that one time they got caught in the rain and Charles offered to share his umbrella with Oscar.

“You work really hard,” Oscar salvages, “You’re really, um. Passionate. You make your characters feel real, and you’re a brilliant musician, and, yeah. You’re going to do fine?”

Charles stays quiet. Oscar can’t even hear him sniffing.

Then, “You really think so?”

Oscar closes his eyes in relief. Thank God he hasn’t cocked it up. Again.

“I really think so,” he confirms.

The door gives way behind his back. Oscar jolts to support his own weight, head swivelling, and—

“Oh,” he says stupidly.

Charles has glitter along his cheekbones.

It’s such a little thing to notice. His eyes are red and puffy, and his white shirt collar is wrinkled where he must’ve been tugging at it, and his hair is in a sorry state, but over all of it, Oscar is stuck on that. The glitter.

In the sterile bathroom lighting, it lays dull against Charles’ skin, but Oscar can imagine it, in the stage lights. The glimmer, otherworldly. How Charles’ entire body throws itself into animation, a fluid extension of somebody else, not a twitch out of his control. It seems ridiculous Charles could ever doubt himself. Oscar knows all this—has known it all these weeks—but it’s thrown into stark relief, here. With Charles looking a little like a wet dog, yet still so—whole, Oscar thinks. So encompassing. It’s like looking into a lunar eclipse.

“Oh,” Charles repeats, and he smiles, sheepish and still glassy eyed and pink-nosed and really pretty. So pretty, Oscar thinks, and realises he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, practically at Charles’ feet.

He clambers upright as gracefully as he can, as Charles collects his backpack and wipes his eyes. Oscar didn’t really plan for… what he would do after. Finds himself at a loss, not sure what to look at, or what to do with his hands.

Thankfully, Charles beats him to it. “I was—I am being very stupid, so thank you,” he ducks his head, rubbing at his nape. He’s wearing rings, Oscar notices, and his brain blue-screens. “It was just—I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I am a little nervous, and—yes. It’s like this, sometimes.”

Weirdly enough, Oscar only likes him more. It’s nice to know even Charles Leclerc cries in the toilet and gets worried about—stabbing his stage partner’s eye out with his broken nose. It’s endearing.

Oh, God. Oscar is endeared. That’s what’s happening here.

“You’re welcome,” he says, strangled. Clears his throat. “It happens to, um. A lot of people, I think.”

“Maybe,” Charles agrees. His knuckles are blanched ivory around the crimson strap of his backpack. He’s staring somewhere over Oscar’s shoulder, gaze darting. Oscar blinks, and Charles is looking at him with big, open eyes, and saying so, how would you feel about having coffee sometime? As thank you—for being nice?

No, he’s not. Oscar is daydreaming. He does this sometimes. Makes up possible conversations before they can happen, just in case. Charles would never in a million years ask him out. Ever.

“If you don’t, this is fine, too,” Charles is rushing to say, “I know you were just being nice, but I—”

Oscar realises three things at once. One: Charles Leclerc just asked him out. Two: he’s standing here, in front of Charles Leclerc, who just asked him out, and saying nothing, like a gormless twit. Three: the only dream this is is a dream come true.

“Yes,” Oscar interrupts, humiliatingly eager. “I mean—yes, yes please. I would like that. Coffee. With you.”

“With me?” Charles points to himself.

Oscar nods so hard he thinks his head will fall off. “With you. Please.”

“Oh,” Charles blinks. “Oh! You—so, that is a yes? To coffee. With me?”

If Oscar opens his mouth, he’s going to make a noise only dogs can hear. He hums instead, ears burning hot.

“Oh, that’s—” Charles is kind of pink. “That’s. Okay! Do you—can I—your number?”

Charles wants my number, Oscar thinks, dazed and dizzy and giddy. Holy fuck. Maybe the bloodline won’t end with him.

“Yep, can I—?” Oscar gestures to Charles’ phone, sticking out of his pocket, and almost sends his jacket flying into the urinals. “To—my number?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Charles hurries to hand it over, and Oscar has to retype it three times before he’s sure it’s the right one. He saves his name as oscar, and, after a careful moment of consideration, adds a :].

“So—coffee?” Charles checks, one last time, as he reclaims his phone.

Oscar has never heard anything sweeter. “Coffee,” he confirms.

He takes back every bad thing he’s ever thought of Max. In fact, Oscar could kiss him right now.

He’ll be sure to dedicate Max a speech at their wedding, instead.

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