Work Text:
Ellen slips through the door into the darkened theatre. She steps into the bright pool of light that the bare bulb of the ghost light throws on the black stage. Here, life; all around, void.
She peers out over the invisible audience, but even blind, no actor could ever mistake empty chairs for a breathing crowd. Ellen has never been interested in performing for no one. She opens her eyes and arms wide and turns in a slow circle.
What do you see, Geoffrey, when you stand here alone?
Scenes and players, visions of fucking sugarplum fairies, castles in the air. It’s not that she can’t imagine what Geoffrey’s visions are like. Well, all right, Geoffrey is a visionary in a way that Ellen—and most people—are not. But that’s not really the mystery that eats at Ellen.
Who are you, Geoffrey, when no one is watching you?
Sometimes she imagines that it doesn’t make a difference to Geoffrey whether or not anyone is watching, because he trails an imaginary audience in his wake, and his life is one continuous performance for their benefit. Or maybe when he’s alone, the light goes out of him altogether and he slumps like a powered-down android until someone comes along to revive him with their attention. Or—and this is the idea that bothers her most—maybe all of Geoffrey’s shifting faces, his ability to drop in and out of character on a dime, the way he improvises on the slightest of cues and changes aspect each time he meets a new pair of eyes—maybe all of that is just costume. Maybe the real Geoffrey is the one who groans her name every time he climaxes; the one who watches rehearsals with a thoughtful frown and fire in his eyes; the one who used to argue the text with Darren or Oliver or herself until all hours. The one who stared at her with frantic eyes out of Ophelia’s grave and the one who rolls a razor blade over his tongue in meetings, as well. Maybe Geoffrey is simply and always himself. If so, she isn’t sure whether to envy or pity him.
Ellen is only the self she performs for whoever is looking at her. This is probably the secret of her success as an actress, but otherwise it’s not something she’s proud of. To try to change now, though, is too terrifying to contemplate.
A soft footfall draws her attention to the shadowy wings.
“Who’s there?”
“Your greatest fan,” says Geoffrey, stepping over the edge of the magic circle of light. He stands there, face lit, back shadowed, looking at her with sober, wondering eyes. And Ellen looks back at this man whose gaze has always had the power to transform her into the Ellen she would desperately love to be.