[ The audience thinks the world of the theatre starts and ends with the stage, most of the people sitting in the red, velvet seats out there won't even know that half the life of the stage happens at the back, they won't ever recognize how huge it is back here. Claude meets Ed's eyes when they come back around, and by that he means up, to his face, his expression warming for a moment - then, with a slight shrug that says, spare me but good-humouredly, he walks over to the slap of wall next to the other man and places himself against it, back and shoulders and nice suit jacket, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning his head as far back as it'll go, so he's staring up towards the darkened ceilings with their ropes and their mechanical systems, shut down for now. Where the magic happens, whether the audience can see the intricate workings of it or not.
Glancing at Ed out the corner of his eye, taking in the elegant line of his jaw, the grey hue of his hair, the sense of softness and maybe a little bit of trouble, too, Claude shifts a bit back and forth on his heels, comments: ]
As long as it's selective memory.
[ Slowly, he turns his head, looks up at the other man, shoulders unusually relaxed, stance as close to a slouch as you get with him, and he smiles at him, wide and inviting and halfway a laugh, the laugh he promised him the last time, right? In everything but words. It means, as long as it's not old age setting in, though he doesn't say it. Saying it would somehow be too direct, too intimate. After all, this is only the second time they talk. He reminds himself. It feels like more. Supposedly, when you share a run of anything, that's a whole life lived together, every time.
Head returning to its previous position, Claude purses his lips, listens for the sounds of the stage technicians further ahead, tearing their own hard work down. Seems a Sisyphean task, to always start over everywhere, huh? Though, maybe that's just life. For everyone.
The company, they've already begun rehearsals for the next thing, too. He blinks against the shadows up there. ]
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Glancing at Ed out the corner of his eye, taking in the elegant line of his jaw, the grey hue of his hair, the sense of softness and maybe a little bit of trouble, too, Claude shifts a bit back and forth on his heels, comments: ]
As long as it's selective memory.
[ Slowly, he turns his head, looks up at the other man, shoulders unusually relaxed, stance as close to a slouch as you get with him, and he smiles at him, wide and inviting and halfway a laugh, the laugh he promised him the last time, right? In everything but words. It means, as long as it's not old age setting in, though he doesn't say it. Saying it would somehow be too direct, too intimate. After all, this is only the second time they talk. He reminds himself. It feels like more. Supposedly, when you share a run of anything, that's a whole life lived together, every time.
Head returning to its previous position, Claude purses his lips, listens for the sounds of the stage technicians further ahead, tearing their own hard work down. Seems a Sisyphean task, to always start over everywhere, huh? Though, maybe that's just life. For everyone.
The company, they've already begun rehearsals for the next thing, too. He blinks against the shadows up there. ]
Then, things just have to be worth remembering.