Chapter Text
Geoffrey Tennant had not always hated Darren Nichols. It was perhaps more accurate to say that Geoffrey and Darren had not always hated each other, but, given the ambient good-natured hatred Darren held for everything that seemed to be important in his life, Geoffrey wasn’t sure he could say that with total certainty. Regardless, there had been a time when, at the very least, the two of them had managed to have something not entirely unlike a friendship.
It started in March, or close enough, of 1980, during their first year of university. Geoffrey had known who Darren was since the start of the year, of course. Their program was fairly small after all— barely forty people across the three years in performance, maybe half that again in the directing and technical focus— it would have been impossible not to be fairly familiar all the people in their class, but he hadn’t really given Darren much more thought than any of their other classmates. Geoffrey didn’t make friends easily, and in a line of fourteen excited drama kids he avoided outside of class time, Darren honestly didn’t stand out one way on the other. Of course, Darren in university had been a tamer, softer, more commonplace version of the bloviating, arrogant, and outlandishly dressed man he eventually became so that wasn’t as surprising a fact as it could have been. When Geoffrey cast his mind back— not that he was inclined to spend a lot of time remembering university— the best recollection he could muster of Darren from those early days was a vague impression of light, baggy jeans and large glasses under a mess of dark hair.
In the second semester of their first year they were staging Godspell, and after the first time they’d managed to get it up on its feet and more or less stumbled the whole way through, the class decided to hold an impromptu celebration. Sure, there had been a lot of stopping, the choreography needed a lot of work, and they didn’t have anything close to finalized blocking… but, they had made it all the way from start to end and that merited a drink. Or required a drink, really, in Geoffrey’s case. He was having difficulty mustering the same enthusiasm as the rest of the cast about this particular production, and he didn’t relish spending an extra few hours with people excited about musicals. But free drinks outweighed having to spend time at what was in practice, if not in name, a party, and so he’d gone with everyone else to someone’s small, dingy apartment.
Geoffrey wound up sitting in a corner, half-listening to a conversation about some band and considering just going home. He finished the dregs of his beer in a single gulp and got up, weaving his way through clumps of people to the drinks table. He’d stay for one more drink, then go home. If he managed to do it without having to talk to anybody, that would be a plus. Geoffrey opened a Carlsberg, and just as he slid onto and unoccupied chair, a voice cut through the background chatter.
“No, listen, there’s something about it that overcomes its mediocrity. I’m not saying it ought to be ranked among the greats, but it’s a play that’s undeservedly overlooked and by that token, Troilus and Cressida is underrated!”
Geoffrey swivelled his head to look where the voice had come from and saw Darren.
He was sitting in an over-stuffed armchair, one leg up on the seat so that he was turned almost entirely to the side, waving his hands as he spoke to two of their classmates sitting on a couch next to him who seemed to be only half as invested in the conversation.
Geoffrey was not the kind of person who talked to people out of the blue, he never had been. He didn’t start conversations with classmates who were barely more than acquaintances during parties he didn’t want to be at. But—
“Are you kidding me, it’s possibly the greatest thing I’ve ever read! I mean, it’s an absolute train wreck from a structural perspective, but it’s just so fun when it gets going that I can’t help liking it.”
“Exactly my point!” Darren told the people on the couch, gesturing emphatically at Geoffrey across the rickety coffee table and not missing a beat at the unexpected interjection. “I should absolutely despise it on the basis of pacing alone, and yet I don’t. It is a travesty of plotting and not at all an effective tragedy, but reading it brings me joy. Any play that can do that and does not receive proper recognition is underrated.”
“Well,” Geoffrey leaned forward, moving forward in his seat so he didn’t have to talk so loud to be heard, “I mean, the bits with Troilus and Cressida are lacklustre, it’s really just a watered down version of what he’d already done in R and J, but there are parts in the Grecian camp that are honestly some of my favourite in the whole canon. The insults, obviously, but the rhetoric and poetic language is better than people give it credit for.”
Darren turned in the armchair, swinging his leg down from the seat and looking at Geoffrey. “But even the Troilus and Cressida scenes are enjoyable, you just have to know how to play them. I saw a production that was masterful—”
“You’ve seen it?” Geoffery’s eyes widened and he nearly knocked over his beer leaning forward.
Darren beamed. “At the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, on a family trip when I was sixteen. John Barton directed, his third time staging it, apparently.”
“God, really? How was it?”
“Amazing, the costuming alone was revelatory.”
“I’ve wanted to see it for ages, ever since I first read it, but it’s performed so rarely! I mean, there was that one at New Burbage in ’72. It got terrible reviews and there’s no way I would have appreciated it, but I almost wish I could have gone.” Geoffrey swallowed a gulp of beer. “Not that my parents would have taken me, even if I had known about it. Or been old enough to care about the more obscure plays.”
“God, I know what you mean. I was just beginning my interest in theatre when I saw it, I don’t think I appreciated my good luck even if the play itself was fantastic.”
“Yeah,” Geoffrey laughed. “I got into Shakespeare young, when I was eleven, but just interest isn’t the same as critical insight. But, sorry— I interrupted you, you were saying something about the tone?”
“Yes!” Darren straightened up. “Barton’s production was amazing, but I’ve yet to hear of any staging that really leans into it the humour of the Troilus and Cressida scenes outside of Pandarus. You mentioned Romeo and Juliet. The play isn’t to my tastes, but at least you can take what they’re saying seriously because you believe their love. When things are funny— and it is a funny play despite being a tragedy—”
“Thank you! So many people miss that!”
“I know, it’s infuriating! They take one look at the word tragedy and can’t make room in their heads for the mere possibility of a joke.” Darren paused, gaze unfocused. “Where was I?”
Geoffrey took a sip of his beer, “Humour in R and J.”
“Right. When there’s humour in R and J, it adds to the tragedy later, and it is not at the expense of their truth of their feelings. Troilus and Cressida’s romance, however, is nearly impossible to take seriously. Their relationship should really be played as melodrama. I honestly believe that much of the weakness of the play can be overcome through reconsidering its classification.”
Geoffrey frowned at him. “How do you mean?”
Darren took a long sip out of the plastic cup in his hand. “Well, obviously Boas called it a problem play, and while not a structurally sound tragedy it does more or less fall into that categorization, but I think we should look beyond the traditional divisions that exist in terms of genre when considering the staging of the play. I have no interest in the author’s intentions when writing it, but as a reader it seems to me so clearly drenched in irony that one would be remiss not to play it as such.” Darren paused, cup half lifted. “Or at the very least, lean into the absurdity of the situations to some degree.”
Geoffrey shifted his position, resting his forearms on his knees. “Really? I mean, I agree with you that the tone of the play is a challenge, but I’ve always seen the storyline of the Greeks and Hector and whatever as more similar to R and J in that regard. There are funny parts, obviously, but that’s what makes the battle more poignant. The real tragic aspects are mostly from that story line, and it can be played fairly straight.”
“Achilles and Patroclus can be played straight?” Darren asked, smirking at Geoffrey over the rim of his drink.
Geoffrey blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. Smiling he said, “You know what I mean. Troilus and Cressida are a b-plot in a play that’s really about the parts adapted from The Iliad. Even if there’s some… mismatch in the way the two storylines are presented, the plot can be played without irony or melodrama.”
Darren leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I’d never considered it from that perspective. Obviously, the imbalance between the love scenes and the rest of the play is plain even at the most cursory examination, but the idea that Troilus and Cressida shouldn’t even be seen as the central story of the play named for them somehow eluded me.”
“Well it’s not surprising, considering. Of course Shakespeare’s going to be more interested in the Classics than in the medieval love story that just happens to be set in the Trojan War.”
Darren adjusted his glasses and snorted. “I don’t know, they’re certainly well entrenched in his stable of references.”
Geoffrey waved his hand dismissively. “Sure, but he obviously knew more about their surroundings and had more fun writing that.” He took a sip of his beer before adding, “Of course some of it would have been dictated by the actors he had, but the length of the speeches is enough to make that clear.”
“Yes… From a staging perspective though, the fact that it’s not really about Troilus and Cressida doesn’t really do much. I’d like to circle back to what you said about playing the story of the Grecian camp in fairly conventional way.”
“What about it?” Geoffrey got up, moving around the coffee table and dropping onto the couch, long since vacated by the people Darren had been talking to.
“Well,” Darren turned in his seat so he was still facing Geoffrey, taking a pull from his drink as he did, “you can’t possibly be arguing that the tragedy of that story is genuinely compelling.”
“No, I think it is,” Geoffrey said earnestly. “Or— I think we have to consider that it can be. These guys are fighting a war that’s gone on for years, and it’s lost its edge. It’s just the daily chore for them, they’ve grown complacent— and Ulysses calls them on it in act one. So you have a, a kind of… dark comedy with these petty arguments and concerns, and moments that make you forget where this is all going, and that— That can be completely entertaining without needing to bring in the melodrama that you mentioned.
“Like, you mentioned believing Romeo and Juliet, right?” Geoffrey took a swig of beer and continued, “I absolutely believe the conflict between the generals and Achilles, the scenes with Hector and Ajax, the actions of the other people in the camp— all of it. And when a huge fight breaks out on stage for the first time in this war play, the deaths hit home. Yes, it’s uproariously funny at times, yes the pacing’s still shit, and there is a wealth of amazingly outlandish insults being thrown around, but that doesn’t mean I take it as less genuine.”
“And then Troilus and Cressida show up to derail all of it.”
Geoffrey laughed. “Well, yeah, the play would be way better if it wasn't trying to be about them— or I guess, if they just had their own play and this story was allowed to be it’s own thing, but it’s like you said,” he shifted his positioning on the couch, “there’s something there railing against the play’s mediocrity.”
Darren frowned, nodding slowly as he considered what Geoffrey had said. Their initial frenzied back and forth had slowed into a more measured discussion. Geoffrey had pulled his feet up onto the couch so they were resting against the armrest closest to Darren and his back was resting against the other. Darren leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as he answered. “You bring up some good points, I suppose. I stand by my assertion that the chief problem is that this is a play which challenges efforts to place it in conventional genre category, but that is not a problem which has only a single solution.” Darren swallowed the last of his drink and added, “I think my main issue with treating it at all seriously is that Hector is far too underdeveloped to have his death truly mean anything to an audience uninvested in the whole of the Trojan War.”
Geoffrey drained his beer, tilting his head back to down the rest of the bottle. “True. And you’re right that playing up the absurdity of the whole mess is one way to make it entertaining.”
“Well, entertaining is better than nothing.” Darren stood up with a grunt. “I’m going to find another drink. Can I get you anything?”
“Er, I’m alright thanks.”
Geoffrey looked around while Darren walked towards the drink table. The apartment suddenly seemed much emptier than it had all evening. The music was quieter, and the people left were gathered in pairs or small clumps around the room.
“God, what time is it?” Geoffrey muttered, craning his neck over the back of the couch to get a look at the clock on the wall. “I should probably be heading home.”
He pushed himself off the couch, adjusting his button down and glancing around himself as patted his pockets absently for his keys.
“Already?” Darren had re-joined him, sipping his newly refilled plastic cup.
“Yeah,” Geoffrey yawned. “I wasn’t even going to stay this long, but I got caught up talking…”
He started walking towards the door, Darren trailing behind him. He started digging through the closed for his coat, talking over his shoulder as he did, “Not that I regret it. Seriously, thank you for being the only enjoyable part of an otherwise unbearable day.”
“I take it you’re not enjoying working with Messers Tebelak and Schwartz?”
“Noooo,” Geoffrey laughed dryly. “No I am not.” He looked up from putting on his coat and added, “I, uh, I’m not really a fan of musicals.”
“Hmm.” Darren hummed, teetering on the border of agreeing and being noncommittal. “I can’t say they’re my first choice either, but they have their place. Besides, it’s better to just lean into at this point, don’t you think?”
Geoffrey shrugged. “Maybe.” He sighed, and with one last look around the apartment he said, “Well, I should be heading out. But, I’ll uh, I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Yes. See you Monday.”
Geoffrey grinned. “Great. Talk to you then.”
They talked on Monday. They also talked every other day of class that week, and every day of the next. Often they’d start as the result of one or both of them having something to say on a topic they were covering in class and gradually turning what had been group discussions into conversations between the two of them, half-debates and half-brainstorming sessions that were volleyed across classrooms and studio spaces with increasing frequency and volume. Rarely did the content of the actual conversations stand out. It didn’t really matter, even as soon as they left the class, what the ideas were; it was the way that discussions with Darren formed, the way the act of arguing something with him made Geoffrey instantly more clear on the different sides of it, made ideas come more readily, made the whole rhythm of conversation smoother and easier to follow. Geoffrey never had to slow down when dealing with Darren. He never had to take the first ten minutes of any interaction to try to find the right words to express his ideas so that they wouldn’t be misunderstood, or to stop the conversation going in circles. Darren understood instantly, and they could cut straight to actually discussing the ideas at hand. It was immensely refreshing.
Sometimes they’d hit on a subject that one or the other actually had strong feelings on. Geoffrey’s thoughts on Hamlet. Darren’s violent distaste for anything that relied on physical comedy. They fell on opposite sides of Ibsen vs. Strindberg (though they could both admit the other’s work had some worth and no one else saw a point in picking a side), and the less time they spent discussing Taming of the Shrew the better for everyone around them. On those occasions, their debates would spill with them into the hallways, follow them to parties… More than once, Geoffrey phoned Darren in the middle of the night with one last retort or one a new insight he’d come up with. (Darren wouldn’t call. instead he’d show up to class the next morning with half an essay’s worth of midnight realizations and evidence for why he was right.) Their longer discussions stood out— the fights they kept coming back to, the shared staging ideas they always had new perspectives on— but for the most part the memories of different conversations blended together into the feel of what debating with Darren had been like, the shape their discussions took, the patterns that they followed. Eventually— not long at all, really, only about two weeks— it wasn’t just classes and rehearsals, it was while they were eating lunch, post-rehearsal drinks at the grimy pub on campus, and the all-hours phone calls that weren’t just the continuation of an idea but the start of a new one. It crept up on Geoffrey, but somehow talking to Darren became a constant. A mainstay of Geoffrey’s life. He could talk— really talk— to Darren Nichols. And that was everything.
By far the best part was that Geoffrey started to actually enjoy rehearsals. Well, no. “Enjoy” was still a bit of a stretch, but he could get through them without spending the whole of it doubting his choice of program now that he had someone to make sarcastic jokes with during breaks. One particularly gorgeous Saturday they’d been called in to fix up some problems with the first act. Spring had finally arrived, the end of the semester was rapidly approaching, and being stuck in a black box rehearsal space singing the same songs over and over felt like torture. While they were gathered on the floor for notes after lunch, Geoffrey leaned over to Darren.
“Five bucks says I can get Carlson to move us outside for the afternoon.”
Darren kept his attention on where their professor was standing, giving some comment to the guy playing Judas. “Don’t be ridiculous, he’d see through you in a second.”
“Who, Carlson? The guy loves me. I’m the only one who knew who Zola was without being told.”
Darren rolled his eyes. “Yes, and we’re all very proud of you, but you’ll never convince him.”
“If you’re so sure then why not take the bet? It’s five dollars, what’ve you got to lose? Besides, if you’re right you get to see me make an ass of myself disrupting a rehearsal.”
Geoffrey could see Darren debating himself internally, still keeping his eyes forward. After a second he said, “Ten.”
Smiling, Geoffrey clapped him on the shoulder before sitting up straighter and sticking his hand into the air.
“Er, so just try to remember that. Alright…” Their professor scanned his notes, checking that he’d gotten everything. Flipping his notebook shut he said, “I think that just about covers it, so— Yes, Geoffrey. Did you have something to add?”
“Yes, sir, I did. I was just wondering if we could try to get a bit of a…” he made circles with one hand, playing up thinking, “a change of scenery. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting this,” he ignored a sarcastic scoff from Darren, “but considering the somewhat improvisational nature of the parables, and how little we want to limit ourselves, it might be good to change up our surroundings a bit. That way we can keep it fresh. Not get into too tight a pattern just because we’re somewhere familiar.”
A few of his classmates who seemed to have a slight idea of what Geoffrey was up to started muttering and turning to look at him. Their professor considered the suggestion, oblivious. “That’s not a bad idea. This room has become a bit of a cast member in its own right these past few weeks, hasn’t it? Might be good to see how we do without it before we’re forced to abandon it… But I don’t think any of the other studios are available to us right now, unfortunately.”
“Well, what about outside? Just for the afternoon,” Geoffrey added, “to get our minds going.”
“Hmm… Rehearsing al fresco? Well, I suppose you have been getting a bit antsy, and really it would be a shame to waste the beautiful weather.” He considered, tapping his pen against his chin. Geoffrey ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, holding his breath. “Alright. Collect your things, no need to change again. In this particular case grass stains will just add character, hm?”
The class stood up quickly, chatting as they gathered props and bags. Geoffrey turned to Darren, expectant. “What did I tell you?”
Darren sighed, plucking the large stuffed fish Geoffrey was holding out of his hands and heading towards the exit. “Yes, once again you have managed to demonstrate that your skills extend to a deep well of bullshittery. No need to be too smug.”
“Come on,” Geoffrey followed him, grinning, “I got us a day outside!” He caught up to Darren and fell into step beside him. “That’s got to be worth ten dollars, hasn’t it?”
Darren rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Fine. I’m not tolerating anything from you about how much you hate musicals, though. You’ll restrain your comments to complaining about the costumes or discussing Shakespearean fools and that’s it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Geoffrey clapped his hand on Darren’s shoulder and sped up. Jogging slightly to catch up with their classmates’ retreating backs, he added, “I reread All’s Well last night, though, so I’ve got a lot to say on Lavatch.”
Surprisingly, being outside did actually seem to energize the group, at least at first. They got a few odd looks from the occasional passerby, but between the weather and the fact that it was Saturday, campus was nearly deserted and they could throw themselves into rehearsing without fear of being questioned or attracting gawkers. Their focussed energy waned rather quickly, but not in a way that Professor Carlson seemed to mind. As the four or five small groups he’d put them in slowly pulled away from the assigned task of running through the individual parables and devolved into conversations, he just circled mildly, giving pointers here and there whenever he passed a group that was at least half-heartedly running part of the show.
Geoffrey and Darren were with two other guys, in the dappled shade under a large pine tree at one end of the quad. They were all lounging on the grass expect Geoffrey, who was leaning against the trunk of the pine, lazily going over a theory he’d been developing while the other two talked about homework for some other class. Both conversations had fallen into a bit of a lull, and one of the other two— Adrian, as near as Geoffrey could remember, though he couldn’t be quite sure— pulled out a camera from his bag and started fiddling with it. Geoffrey looked around the quad at the rest of their class, idly taking in what they were doing.
“I keep coming back to Love’s Labour’s Lost, if I’m being honest.” Geoffrey commented, watching what appeared to be an impromptu performance of some song from A Chorus Line across the quad.
“Hmm?” Darren tilted his head, resting on the stuffed fish, to get a better view of Geoffrey. “What was that?”
“Love’s Labour’s Lost,” Geoffrey repeated.
Darren rolled over onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “For the love of god, why?”
Geoffrey adjusted his position against the tree, sitting up straighter. “I’m just not sure if it fits with what we’ve been trying to establish.”
“What? You don’t think that Moth’s jokes can be played as groan-inducing-ly bad? You still haven't properly convinced me that Lavatch’s consistently can, if I’m being honest.”
“Seriously? Every point that you made about Touchstone can be said of Lavatch, just… more openly sexual.”
“And that holds true, in his scenes with Helen. But his scenes with the Countess bear far more of a resemblance to Feste’s interactions with Olivia, and if we’ve established that he is the exception to the rule we’re trying to construct—”
“But the reason he’s the exception isn’t because his jokes should be played as genuinely funny for a modern audience to enjoy them, he’s the exception because he consistently uses his wit as a cover for genuinely insightful comments. His interactions with Olivia have an actual bearing on both the plot and an important aspect of her character. Lavatch is just… messing around and the Countess gets progressively more annoyed.”
Darren considered this, absently pulling at the grass. “That could be interesting to play with, actually. Their scenes are tedious and unnecessary as it is, the humour doesn’t really carry even if you understand the wordplay, not to mention that it’s excessively crass… But the idea of continually mounting frustration has potential.”
“Exactly. I know Touchstone started this whole thing, but honestly Lavatch is an even better contender.”
“Did he?”
“Who?”
“Touchstone,” Darren clarified. “Did he start this? I thought it started with you talking about Two Gents.”
“Did it?” Geoffrey frowned. “I could have sworn you brought up how Touchstone’s annoying and it went from there.”
Darren shrugged— an awkward gesture seeing as he was leaning on his elbows on a large stuffed animal. “Doesn’t matter now. What were you saying about Love’s Labour’s Lost?”
“Well,” Geoffrey took a deep breath, “it’s interesting that you went to Moth as the clown character. Most people would got to Costard first, wouldn’t they?”
“Well, perhaps. But, in the same way that Dogberry’s a clown. We’re not discussing the naturally buffoonish, we’re discussing the… Arlecchinos of Shakespeare’s canon.”
“Right,” Geoffrey agreed. “So Costard’s out. But Moth doesn’t really feel the same as Touchstone or Lavatch, does he? He’s not paid to be a clown, he’s a page. Don Armando uses him mostly for… running messages. Delivering letters.”
“So? I just mentioned Two Gents,” Darren rolled his eyes. “We included Speed didn’t we? He may not be literally a clown, but it’s the type of humour that we’re really using as a metric. Honestly, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey snapped hid fingers, pointing at Darren. “Exactly. It’s the type of humour. And Love’s Labour’s Lost almost entirely relies on that type of quippy, quick-witted humour. Moth seems identifiable as they type of character we’ve been talking about— clowns, fools, Arlecchinos… whatever. He seems like that, because he’s similar to Speed, because he’s a clever servant, but you could easily make a case for the schoolmaster. Or Costard, even, in a very backwards way. I once found a quote calling his the smartest character in the play, for Christ’s sake. The premise of playing the clowns’ puns as something that annoys or frustrates other characters, rather than being genuinely funny to them, stands in general… I just don’t know how to make it work with this play.”
Darren looked at him and blinked very slowly. “I’m going to be honest with you Geoffrey, it’s been a very long time since I had any contact with the play, and even then it was an amateur production. I just don’t think—” He was cut off by a bright flash.
“Shit, sorry.” Adrian— Geoffrey was almost certain it had in fact been Adrian with them— said as both Geoffrey and Darren turned in his direction. “My finger slipped.”
“It’s fine,” Geoffrey told him. Turning back to Darren he said “What do you think about Lear, then? Because—”
Darren drowned him out with a loud groan. “Not right now, alright? By some miracle you’ve gotten us out of rehearsal, can we put the academics aside for now?”
“Okay, but just one quick thing—” Geoffrey leaned forward to make his point and promptly found himself smacked with a face full of plush fabric. “Hey!”
Darren had rolled over and he was lying his back, clutching the tail of the stuffed fish and laughing.
Geoffrey jumped to his feet, grabbing at the fish. “Give me that!”
“Hey!” Darren pulled it away from him, scrambling into a standing position himself. “Not so fast, you thief.”
“Thief? Me?” Geoffrey laughed. “It’s my prop, you’re the one who keeps stealing it.”
“Well, I don’t see you doing anything about it.”
Geoffrey looked around, casting his gaze over the ground for something he could use. His eyes fell on the spot where Darren had been lying and he lunged, scooping up a kaleidoscope that Darren carried in the show which had obviously fallen out of his pocket. Smiling, Geoffrey shifted his feet so he was in sword fighting stance, holding the cardboard tube as though it were a sword. Darren shook his head, laughing, but followed his lead, holding the fish out in front of him with both hands about halfway up it’s body. They stood like that for a second, the Geoffrey launched himself forward, kaleidoscope held high. Darren yelped and ran clumsily around the tree, swinging the fish in retaliation.
Étienne, the other guy they are supposed to be working with, whooped and started clapping. “Yeah! Go Tennant!”
“Get him, Darren!” Adrian called out, grinning.
Geoffrey managed to poke Darren in the ribs with the kaleidoscope, but getting that close meant that Darren could hit him in the face again, giving himself a chance to gain some ground while Geoffrey recovered. Geoffrey retaliated by darting around Darren from the side and grabbing his glasses, stuffing them awkwardly into his pocket while dodging Darren’s wild swings with the fish. He was vaguely aware, out of the corner of his eye, of Étienne pushing himself off the ground, but he was too busy trying to wrest the fish out of Darren’s grasp to pay much attention. There was a bright flash from Adrian’s camera to their right, and both of them turned to look, distracted. Darren seized the opportunity and plucked the kaleidoscope out of Geoffrey’s hand.
“Ha! Take that!” He stumbled backward, awkwardly swinging the fish to make sure he didn’t bump into anything.
“Oh, come on!” Geoffrey lunged forward, but Darren just managed to jump back. They both twisted around for a second, Geoffrey trying to grab one of the props and Darren breathlessly trying to evade him.
“Hey, Darren!” From out of nowhere, Étienne seemed to pop up beside them, snatching the fish and dancing backwards. “Think fast!” He tossed the fish at Geoffrey.
He and Darren both jumped for it, and tripped over each other, landing haphazardly on the ground and scrambling to be the first to get to it.
Geoffrey won, but just barely, kicking Darren off and stumbling to his feet. Adrian took another picture, but Geoffrey ignored it this time as Darren poked him in the stomach with the kaleidoscope. Geoffrey whipped around to face him. He was back in the mock-sword fighting position from before, kaleidoscope at the ready, beaming and panting heavily. Geoffrey’s own face hurt from smiling, and he struggled to catch his breath and look serious as he slowly assumed his own en garde. They sized each other up, tense and catching their breath.
“Give up?” Geoffrey asked, between pants.
“Hardly.”
Slowly, Geoffrey slid his eyes to his right, assessing the situation. Then, moving quickly, he flung the fish at Darren and leapt to the side. Darren started back, surprised, and caught it awkwardly, dropping the kaleidoscope into the grass. He turned to look for Geoffrey just as he’d managed to grab Adrian’s camera from him and start snapping pictures wildly.
Darren stumbled backwards, blinking from the quick succession of flashes, holding up the fish to shield his eyes.
“Alright, alright, I surrender!” He gasped out, laughing. “You win.”
“Excellent.” Panting, Geoffrey lowered the camera, wiping his face. He bent over to pick of the kaleidoscope, straightening up with a sigh.
Darren lowered the fish, still holding it in front of him. He was grinning broadly, looking slightly unfocussed without his glasses. Geoffrey held up the camera with one hand. “Just one more. To document my victory.”
Darren rolled he eyes. “Fine. But then we’re done, alright? Truce for at least a week.” Geoffrey nodded his agreement and Darren lifted up the fish a bit, leaning his head onto as he grinned.
Geoffrey snapped the picture, then held out the kaleidoscope and Darren’s glasses to him. “Here. You’re gonna have to stop taking that thing, you know. As part of the truce.”
“Ugh, I suppose.” Darren took the glasses and kaleidoscope from Geoffrey and reluctantly handed back the stuffed fish. “And I owe you ten dollars, don’t I? This really hasn’t been my day.”
Geoffrey laughed, taking the fish and swinging it lightly over his shoulder. “Well on the bright side we got plenty of exercise.”
Adrian trotted up to join them. “Hey, I think we’re heading back in now.”
“Oh yeah, god, we were supposed to be rehearsing, weren’t we?” Geoffrey said. Darren burst out laughing, and Geoffrey let out a breathy chuckle as the absurdity of what he’d said sank in. They composed themselves, taking deep breaths, and started slowly walking back towards the building, gradually catching up to the rest of their class. Carlson seemed either oblivious or totally indifferent to how little had been accomplished, talking amiably to a student as he strolled back towards the double doors.
When they were almost to the doors, Adrian asked, “Hey can I get my camera back?”
“Oh, sorry. Er…” Geoffrey rummaged around in his costume’s pockets, and pulled it out. “Here. Thanks, for that, by the way. I, uh, may have used up a lot of your film.”
“That’s cool,” Adrian shrugged. “If any of the pictures turn out well I’ll get you a copy.”
Geoffrey thanked him for the offer and then promptly forgot about it. The next few weeks were so busy with rehearsals and class that he barely had time for anything else. He didn’t remember about the photos until closing night of Godspell, when Adrian wove through the crowd backstage to find Geoffrey and Darren after the show.
“Guys! Hey! Geoffrey,” he called pushing through the energize, chattering crowd.
“Oh, hey!” Geoffrey turned to look at him. “How’s it going? Good show.”
Darren grinned at him over Geoffrey’s shoulder. “Great show!”
“Yeah, you too,” Adrian nodded. “Listen, I finally got that filmed developed.”
“What?” Geoffrey said, leaning closer.
“The film!” Adrian raised his voice to be heard over the rest of the cast. “From the other week. Most of the pictures were blurry as hell, but a couple turned out alright. Here.” He held out a small envelop and Darren took it. “I gotta go, my parents are out front I should go talk to them.”
“Yeah of course,” Geoffrey nodded. “Thanks, man.” He turned to Darren. “How d’they look?”
“Pretty good.” Darren leaned to the side and held the photos so they could both see as he flipped through.
There were only three, showing Darren Geoffrey at various points during their duel. At the back, there was the last photo that Geoffrey had taken of Darren.
“Hey, pretty nice.” Geoffrey grinned. “Look. I, uh, I gotta go get out of costume, my mom’s taking me to dinner. I’ll er, I’ll see you later though, yeah? When are you heading home for the summer?”
Darren laughed. “We do still have a few days of classes left, you realize.”
“Yeah, obviously, just, you know. We should… I don’t know, do something other than class before we’re both back home for four months. Whatever, we’ll work it out, alright, I gotta go.” He started pushing through the crowd, heading towards the dressing rooms.
“Wait!” Darren called out. Geoffrey turned. “Here. To commemorate your victory, wasn’t it?”
Geoffrey looked down at the picture Darren was holding out to him. Darren’s glasses-less face beamed up to him from the glossy paper.
“Thanks.” He took it, smiling. “I’ll hold on to it.”