[Closed] You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

"It's still not working," a static-ridden and youthful male voice whined in a clearly-irritated high pitch through the earpiece nuzzled in Ray's ear. The 29-year old hadn't gotten into the theatre scene in order to flex his technical knowhow over a bunch of kids five and ten years younger than he, yet he was the sort of type-A who couldn't quite handle seeing things done wrong or half-assed. Stepping in to correct the mass hysteria brought on by one of the tech crew not thinking to check wireless units' frequencies had been the tip of the spear.

Now Ray, having volunteered in a purely artistic capacity, found himself scarcely able to contribute to any of his own projects in excess of ten minutes before some other variety of disaster emerged. By this point, he reluctantly wore an earpiece that kept him plugged in to the rest of the technical crew's goings-on, and that over-extending gesture was quickly unraveling the cool and calm he'd hoped to convey when he got himself into this extracurricular activity at the school. The whole thing was decidedly outside of his comfort zone, but it was a growing experience. That -- getting outside his comfort zone -- had been one of the many list items the young professional had scrawled and taped to the guest bathroom mirror so that he was forced to reread it every morning while getting ready.

"Hang on," Ray remarked in a tone that was short without being terse. Anyone who knew the guy could tell he was getting aggravated, yet he managed not to come off as overtly annoyed. Rather, he gave one final swipe of the burgundy-smeared brush across a full sheet of plywood propped up before him. The school's program wasn't quite strong enough to support a great deal more than painted backdrops and a couple well-worn mobile platforms on which to place heavier set components. That meant he was doing a lot of this sort of thing, and with little to no help, the constant interruptions were frustrating. Unlike most of these kids, Ray had a full time job on top of courses, homework, and all the other nonsense. He just kept reciting that bulleted list from the mirror. It was committed to memory by now. A quiet thunk rang out as he tossed the brush down, letting it slide to a rest upon his drop cloth.

It was still fairly early in the evening; around 8:00 or so, and actors as well as actresses had been present on stage for much of the two hours and change that he had been present. The production itself was still in its younger stages, but people were starting to get a feel for their roles. There were minimal scripts in-hand at this point, and that meant that it was time for the technical guys to start tightening up their own game. This kind of shit was exactly the sort of thing they needed to figure out on their own, yet Ray knew good and well he'd probably find a spot among the upcoming engineers and IT personnel once the production actually began. After all, there weren't many things that could break mid-production in terms of his contributions; at least not the kinds of things he could fix.

Average height and somewhat stocky in his build, Ray didn't stand out tremendously among his significantly younger peers. He had a baby's face and a neutral smile; the sort of expression that typically got him carded for alcohol unless he took the time to grow a beard. He was pale in complexion with a confident stride and compelling cerulean eyes that complemented short reddish brown hair that matched the fiery stubble on his cheeks and chin. He often showed up for classes in khakis and dress shirts, but his time on set meant a change was required. Tonight, like on many evenings, Ray wore a pair of crisp and dark denim jeans along with a plain black v-neck t-shirt. He emerged from the curtains with pep in his step, unwilling to concede that he'd accomplish no more than he already had before needing to leave around 9:30. His trajectory carried him to the edge of the stage, and his gaze was fixed to the wide set of windows housing the tech guys' workroom. After a few moments of silence in that earpiece, his arms slowly climbed in an over-gestured shrug. "Your mic's muted..."

A delightedly frustrated grin surfaced in Ray's expression as the voice returned, and then his head twisted sideways as the squeaky voice returned. Through its owner's direction, Ray's attention was diverted to a duo shifted off to stage left and engaged in a conversation clearly not related to the production; or at least it didn't sound like it. The painter gave a nod and thumbs up to the face hidden away in the tech room, and he headed over to the young woman and her counterpart. He'd seen her before, but Ray didn't know the first thing about her. "Whose mic is messing up?" The question came without a demanding tone. Rather, Ray did his very best to sound pleasant. Assuming the best about people -- immature kids included -- was another item on his list.

RE: You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

They were at it again, the damned bedroom scene. Gratuitous to a fault, poorly written, and halfway-poorly acted. Tessa had begged for a rewrite, but this was Sam's baby. His final farewell to the university theatre scene before he graduated and took an internship somewhere out in the Midwest, where they wouldn't know a good piece of theatre if it bit them in the ass. He wasn't going to budge on a line, least of all one that might shave off a scantily-clad minute.

The costume added insult to injury, some over-the-top lacy number that put Christine Daaé to shame. At least she had a robe, even if it was sheer.

Tessa had always wondered how professional actors could handle being so close and so unclothed around a perfect stranger, but it was nothing like she had imagined. The other lead, Lance, always smelled like an auto shop and his teeth were weirdly... Slimy. The hot lights above them made him sweat like a pig and a stray costumer was always having to mop him up between scenes. There weren't enough showers in the world that could rid of her of his sweat on her body. Nothing about that scene was sexy, yet somehow she had to convince the audience that it was. Sam wanted tears and bated breath, and by God, she would give it to him.

"Line?" Lance called out, and the assistant stage manager called out, in an extremely bored tone, "Bernadette, if I might never raise my head up from your delicious bosom, I should die a happy man."

"Riiiight. Oh Bernadette, if I may never lift my head up from your bosom, I would die a happy man." Tessa rolled her eyes, taking Lance's hands as he pulled her tightly into his body. She could hear Sam whining over the botched line, even from his seat halfway through the house.

"'Mon cher, vous allez crier mon nom alors que nous baisons,'" he hissed into her ear, and she could smell the double bacon cheeseburger he had for lunch. Lovely. That wasn't a line in the script, either. Was he ad-libbing, or was that an open invitation that she couldn't decline soon enough? she tossed his hands away melodramatically, just as they had blocked, and crossed to stage right. Not a minute too soon. As she moved, she subtly fidgeted with the mic settings, screwing it up on purpose. If Sam wouldn't give it a rest, she would force his hand. How the hell did Lance land this role, that puffed-up douche who couldn't act his way out of a wet paper bag, and she had gone through five rounds of callbacks for this pathetic role.

"'Oh Armando, must you leave for war? We can abscond to France, make love beneath the Arc de Triomph, live out our days in a humble château along the Riviera..." Without the boost of the mic, her voice couldn't be heard by Sam or his mousy stage manager, Carson. As she hoped, he noticed immediately and frowned, gesturing for her and Lance to step off-stage to fix whatever Tessa had done. Lance needed to be blotted anyway.

As soon as they reached the safety of the wings, Tessa rounded on Lance. "Look, stick to the script, alright? I don't care if Sam encourages you to take liberties, that doesn't extend to me." She ignored the unfortunate costumer who had been assigned to sweat duty, hovering awkwardly around them with a box of tissue and patting Lance dry. He scoffed, folding his arms over his bare chest.

"We need to work on our chemistry, ma petite collation... Actually, I was thinking we could practice over at my place after rehearsal... You know you can't get enough of me." He fingered a strawberry blond curl, and Tessa stepped back quickly.

"I'd rather gargle thumbtacks. Learn your fucking lines and keep your atrocious French accent and your wandering hands to yourself." Out of the corner of her vision, she saw a techie dressed in the customary black, reddish paint smeared across the thigh of his jeans approaching them. Her savior.

"Whose mic is messing up?" he asked, and Tessa stepped forward a little too eagerly, raising her hand in a half-wave. He seemed a little harassed, but then, weren't they all? She brought her hands between her breasts, where the nude-colored mic was clipped to the cream corset she wore, a gesture that felt weirdly intimate as she met his piercing gaze.

"I don't know what's wrong with it," she lied, her voice low, "but if you don't mind taking forever to fix it, that would be great." A mischievous smile turned the corners of her full lips, as she quickly tossed a pointed gaze in Lance's direction. "I'm not exactly in a hurry to get back to... That."

RE: You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

Ray's head twisted as the duo he was approaching parted ways. While the male lead retreated to one of his cursed handlers, the more attractive of the pair gravitated towards the techie painter himself. There still wasn't more than a few feet between the two of them and Lance, who was now being furiously blotted by someone who so clearly loved their job, but it was enough distance that Ray didn't feel as though he was having a conversation with both of them.

Before he could say a word, she started into her confession, and he couldn't keep his eyes from reflexively tracing down to the motion of her hands. They shot right back up out of habit, a sudden sensation of wrongness charging through him given that he'd just taken a deep dive right into this scantily clad twenty-something's chest. She was stunningly beautiful, and while he had no doubt she was used to stares -- maybe even liked them -- he wasn't about to sink to that kind of a low. He already felt like a weirdo. What 29-year old volunteered for a college program filled with teenagers and people too young to drink?

Ray's lips tightened in a knee-jerk reaction, and then their left corner lifted in the closest thing to a smirk anyone in the theater program had seen from him. His cerulean gaze studied the girl's delicate features, and as she went on about explaining herself, his expression intensified to a half-smile. He shot a glance to Lance as he was being attended by that lottery winner of a costumer. "That's weird," he murmured as if thinking aloud. It was clear, in that moment, that Ray was not meant to be an actor. The contrived words would not likely have fooled Lance if he'd been even remotely aware of them.

"Oh, yeah." He gave a profound, understanding, and only somewhat awkward nod. A moment later, Ray cast his right hand out in a shallow arc, finding himself suddenly incredibly conscious of the tendency in his hand to tremble. Fortunately it was steady as two fingertips carefully clasped to the tiny dangling microphone. He applied just a bit of pressure to the small plastic casing, and then he repeated the pressure upon its end; where it connected to that thin wire running along to a battery pack. The fabricated test produced lackluster results, and then Ray's fiery brows furrowed in unison, sinking in an exaggerated frown.

"Can you pop the battery pack off for me?" Ray reached out with his left hand this time, bringing an upturned palm to gesture at the girl's waist. The small tungsten wedding band he wore gave a quick glimmer as it caught the swiveling light someone deemed it necessary to illuminate in a quick test. He couldn't imagine what she'd managed to clip the battery back to, but he damn sure wasn't about to go feeling around for it himself. "I bet I know what's going on. We might have to bring you a new one, but we're trying to check these things out before we give up on them."

While waiting for compliance, Ray took the time to force a small smile. He didn't really have time for this, but he couldn't deny that the mischievous smile had piqued his interest. It wasn't often that he had the opportunity to connect with a peer in this environment, and somehow he couldn't help but think that related to at least one or two of the items on his list; even if not directly. Still, he said nothing. Behind a relatively calm facade, he was trying desperately to remember her name. He knew he'd seen it in print at least half a dozen times.

RE: You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

Tessa followed his gaze to where the mic had been clipped, noted the almost-guilty twitch of his mouth as he met her eyes again, and she grinned easily. His deliberate avoidance was too obvious, almost worse than gawking at her outright. "Hey, don't sweat it-- I mean really, don't, I don't think I can handle more bodily secretions today. It's fine. You're supposed to look, that's the entire point." She gently tossed her heavy hair to the side, baring the smooth, gentle curve of her neck to the cool air. So much better.

She watched as he fiddled with the tiny piece of hardware, taking notice of him for the first time. Admittedly, she didn't really interact with the technical crew much beyond costume and hair, but not because she had some sort of pompous sense of superiority over them, like Lance and some of the other cast did-- no, she simply hadn't had a reason to mingle.

Something about the striking way he looked at her made her heart beat just a bit faster, as though he saw something there that maybe she didn't quite want him to. He was older than anyone in the production, she realized, but it wasn't as simple as that. He had an aura of maturity that was as obvious and unmistakeable as the paint on his jeans.

"The battery pack. Of course. Let me just..." She shrugged out of the sheer robe, letting it fall to the floor. She seemed entirely unconcerned that she was barely dressed in front of him, shifting her weight to one side as she cupped one hand at her hip. The pack she had tampered with was clipped soundly into her garter belt, and she pressed it into his waiting palm. "I think it's done for. At least I hope so. If I have to press up against Wet One over there one more time tonight, I'm going to lose it." She played with a wayward curl, still smiling as she watched him work.

"Fuck it. Cut to act two, scene four. Tessa, we're done with you for the night," Sam called out, clearly vexed by the entire thing. Good, let him be vexed. She was starving and ready for a shower anyway, and if she left before her handsy stage-husband, there was less of a chance that he would try to coordinate some post-rehearsal rendezvous.

"Finally free. Thanks... I'm sorry, what's your name? You look familiar, I think we have a class together or something? You're a man of many talents. Set-painting, sound, aiding and abetting my escape-- what can't you do?" She winked, patting him gently on the shoulder. Her eyes were bright with interest as she studied him.

RE: You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

You're supposed to look, Ray repeated the words in his mind behind a perplexed and purely reflexive grimace. It was difficult to fathom, for someone in his position, that anyone could undertake the sort of role that this girl had. He took the time to put a t-shirt on rather than wander shirtless through the house in the middle of the night if friends or relatives were staying over. She, on the other hand, wore the burden of such intimate unmentionables quite well, and she did it in front of all kinds of strangers. Though he couldn't fathom it, he admired her boldness.

"Right," the painter mumbled without relenting in his effort to focus solely upon the lovely young woman's eyes.

...And then she dropped her robe. Still his cerulean stare never withdrew from hers. He took the offered battery pack and twisted it, popping off its back panel only to remove the battery and examine its innards with a cursory glance.

"Same thing as with the others," he fibbed, twisting the unit around long enough to let Tessa glimpse the chip he'd exposed. The thing was perfectly fine. Given Sam's frustrated call a few moments later, he could only assume their charade worked. Self-satisfied and none too ashamed of his sub-par acting, Ray offered the only things he could under the circumstances: A large, infectious grin and an upturned right brow. He pivoted ever so slightly, taking a partial sidestep and situating himself so that he was no longer blocking the girl from their director.

"Yep," Ray remarked with a nonchalant shrug. It was the first time she might notice, but he had a distinctly southern drawl that was clearly hidden day-to-day with some effort Replacing the battery, he gave a twitch of the left lip that very nearly caused his eye to pinch shut in a playful wink. "No problem."

"I'm Ray," he offered. "and there's plenty I can't do. Like I can't promise we'll do nearly as well next time you need an eject button. I'm no actor." He grinned, resisting the urge to throw an over-the-top elbow nudge to further sell the corny joke.

"And you're Tessa. That's a different name. I like it," Ray went on. "Not sure about the class, though." Truth be told, Ray was sure, but he wasn't about to admit that to himself; let alone Tessa. You didn't forget a face like hers.

"So, ah..." Ray struggled. It was difficult making small talk with coworkers, and the generational gap felt larger now than it normally did. Admittedly, the guy had a mild complex about it, but he was none too shy about confronting those kinds of hurdles head on. "Do you actually speak French? Seems like he did," He remarked as that grin gradually subsided back into a more comfortable smirk, tossing a quick toss of the head towards Lance.

"You all definitely have the stage chemistry, though. I can tell," he prodded, unable to resist poking a little fun.

RE: You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

"It looks like it's on death's door," Tessa agreed solemnly, observing the chip he showed to her as though she had any idea what it was supposed to look like. "That's a shame. Now how is the audience supposed to hear my moans when I climax?" She could tell he was a little uncomfortable speaking with her, something about the way he nervously smiled, or the flicker of his gaze.

"Not an actor? You sold this sabotaged mic like it was nothing, sounds like acting to me." She watched as Lance was called back onto the stage to practice his death scene. Nothing was sweeter to watch. She lived to see him spread-eagle on the matte black stage floor, the dagger of his adversary lodged in his side as he huffed out his final breath. "Watch this. It kills me." Lance rolled onto his side, clutching the prop and howling for his Bernadette. "Even with his dying breath, he's desperate for a lay. Now that's a poor excuse for acting. He's not even faking it."

She was surprised by his question about the French, realizing that although Lance had meant for only her to hear that disgusting little proposition, the mic had amplified it for the entire cast and crew to hear. "Oh man, you heard that?" She pushed her hair from her face, combing her fingers through the thick tresses as a blush crept down and nestled between her breasts. The pink blossomed across the cream of her skin, illuminating her with color.

"That's... humiliating. I know enough to catch his drift. He doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell, but somewhere along the way he got it in his head that he can make up for an actual personality with a good, hearty helping of braggadocio and douchebaggery. It may have worked once, who knows, but he can try it all he wants on me, it's not going to happen. I don't even think Lance is his real name, he probably stole it from some skeezy porn." She laughed, and felt lighter than she had the whole evening, before she realized how much she was talking.

"Sorry, I don't usually... Anyway. You really helped me out just then. I owe you..." She thought of inviting him out for a drink, but would he think that was weird? The ring flashed in the light, as though warning her not to. He was married. He was older-- not that it bothered her, but what did she have to offer him? "I'm going to change, then I'm hitting the new club on Fifth and Chancey Street-- Whistler's? If you happen to be there, I'll buy you a drink." There, that wasn't weird, was it? It's not like she invited him, not directly anyway. "Au revoir, mon héros." She smirked slightly, brushing his shoulder as she left him there, her hips swaying gently as she walked. She nearly passed him by before she turned back, facing him directly. "Oh, you've got..." She brought her hand to his face and softly touched his cheek, where an errant smudge of paint rested. Her touch was gentle, deliberate, with no more weight than a butterfly's wings. "There." She paused and tried to ignore the undeniable electricity of his gaze. Talk about chemistry. "I'll um... I'll see you."

RE: You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

"I dunno," Ray teased at the notion that Lance had stolen his stage name from anything less than a savory source. He twisted sideways stare down towards the sweatslick would-be Casanova laying flat on his back, resisting the urge to chuckle aloud at the over-exaggerated gestures as some inexplicable variety of rigormortis set in to an actor who refused to simply die.

"Maybe he's just sophisticated in a way you don't ...get," he lamented in tandem with one of Lance's last few death throes. The remark came with a deadpan delivery all Ray's own. Then that grin, now somewhat goofier, returned.

The invitation came unexpectedly, and when it did, Ray did well not to openly stammer. Instead, he relegated his surprise to a nigh discernible widening of the eyes followed closely by a slack-jawed fumble. "I-ah... Sure? Maybe."

"Have fun. Maybe I'll see you," Ray managed to utter by simply slowing himself down enough to focus on each syllable independent of its descendant. His head turned to follow her movement, and then when she paused, there was a tangible uncertainy. Both brows lifted. His heart stopped for a moment. He saw only the twin thunderstorms in her eyes while a distinctly floral scent mingled with something more natural. That light touch was enthralling in a way that was both alarming and comforting. It was such a simple gesture, yet in that moment, it felt somehow profound in a way that Ray could neither explain nor justify.

"Thanks. See ya," he trailed off, and without letting his gaze take the tantalizing route of watching Tessa walk away, the stagehand quietly made way backstage once again. For the first time that evening, the man was free to paint, and that was what he did. He lost himself for nearly two more hours, and thoughts of his job, classwork, and any other to-do items on his Wunderlist were eclipsed entirely by Tessa and her invitation.

The thought alone was haunting such that, by the end of his painting spree, Ray was enamored with the fantasy that some alternate version of himself might simply shrug off the consequences. His life was his own, after all, and nothing tethered him to being home at a certain time; not even the ring.

She was just being nice.
I've never even been to a club. I can barely stand bars.
What the Hell would we even talk about without that jackass on hand for entertainment?
She's a kid. It would just be weird.

Ray rattled off a familiar mantra of skepticism that often kept him from indulging in social activities. He didn't consciously recognize that last little pause in Tessa before she'd departed, but instincts couldn't deny that attraction. There was a spark there, but for the moment he could only think of that stormy gaze and the simple but delicate touch which had left a faint thumbprint in crimson upon his cheek. A gentle instrumental tune serenaded him in a quiet loop as he sat half an hour later in the parked SUV in his driveway. The night wasn't over until he went inside and began the routine of winding down for bed. As it turned out, that came just before midnight when Ray settled into the same guest bedroom he'd been occupying for nearly three months. A glass of bourbon, SportsCenter, and thoughts of that brief encounter lulled him into a restless but nonetheless fulfilling sleep.