Archive of Our Own ^beta

SCENE ONE: House Pitch. Drawing Room.

SOPHRONIA: Tell us the story, Baz.

PETRA: Tell us about how you and Simon met!

BAZ: You know this story. You've heard it a thousand times before.

MORDELIA: Tell it again.

BAZ: Well, all right. But first, a bit of exposition.

Many years ago, when each of you was young enough for such things not to matter, there was a rift between two families: House Pitch and House Cadwallader.

Everyone who wished to remain in the kingdom had to pledge to one or the other, or risk being caught in the crossfire. Loyalty to either would protect you far better than the constabulary, who could be persuaded to turn a blind eye on a brawl for a bribe.

The Houses were at war. We never called it that, certainly—it was a longer, subtler game than the bloodshed you'd expect. But for anyone to consort with someone from the opposite house was unheard of—let alone for anyone from the opposing sides to be in love.

MORDELIA: But you were. Weren't you?

BAZ (laughing softly): In love? Well, yes. I wasn't at that part yet. But if it's so important to you, we can talk about him.

MORDELIA, PETRA, SOPHRONIA (in chorus): Yes!

SCENE TWO: House Cadwallader. Simon's bedroom.

PENELOPE: Simon, you simply must stop moping about. It's impractical.

SIMON: Firstly, I'm not moping. I'm just…

PENELOPE: Staring at the wall like you want it drawn and quartered? Again, impractical.

SIMON: My whole life has been impractical, Pen. Start to finish. What do you expect?

PENELOPE: For you to come to the gala with me.

SIMON: You are dear to me, it's true, but I should think your Micah might be offended.

PENELOPE: Stop being difficult. I didn't mean it like that. You wouldn't even have to see me, though I expect you'll be plastered to my side the whole time.

SIMON: Why do you want to go so badly?

PENELOPE: It's a Pitch gala. I mentioned this an hour ago.

SIMON: Apologies. I was reading the letter from Agatha just then.

PENELOPE: Si… It isn't so awful.

SIMON: No. You're right. It's only the suddenness of it. She caught me so by surprise.

PENELOPE: She shouldn't have written. Micah has an excuse; he doesn't even live here. She's a coward.

SIMON: She's an angel. Don't begrudge her just because she doesn't wish to be courted by me.

PENELOPE: Aren't you sad?

SIMON: Yes. I don't know.

PENELOPE: Go to a gala. Wear a mask. They won't suspect you.

SIMON: Yes, they will. I'm the heir.

PENELOPE: It matters not. I'll disguise you so well that your own nurse will not recognize you.

SCENE THREE: House Pitch. The Ballroom.

(SIMON enters through a pair of sliding doors. He is dressed in Pitch colors, wearing spectacles, with his hair newly shorn.

(Music rings through the room. Dancers weave in pairs around each other.)

SIMON (trodding on someone's toe, despite not dancing yet): Sorry.

(BAZ steps in through the doors. The room seems to still as the heir passes, dressed in lovely, fine clothing, his chin regal and his eyes kind. Beside him is GARETH, slipping his arm through BAZ's.)

BAZ (hushed): You needn't keep so close to me, nor grip my arm so tightly.

GARETH: Are we not here as a pair?

BAZ (after a pause): Yes. Yes, of course.

(BAZ and GARETH begin to dance. GARETH swings BAZ into another couple, uncoordinated and careless. BAZ, light on his feet, regains his position as GARETH's partner.)

SIMON (to PENELOPE): They are quite high and mighty, no? Strutting about with their fabrics and fancy fare.

PENELOPE: David is equally well-to-do, Simon.

SIMON: He never holds these functions.

PENELOPE: Shall we dance?

SIMON: No. I'll shatter your ankle by accident.

PENELOPE: You overestimate your strength. Suit yourself, but it does not do to pine the hours away as you do.

SIMON: I shan't pine. I am against the very idea, I assure you.

PENELOPE: Perhaps if you tell yourself enough times, it will start to be true. (Rushes away to dance.)

BAZ: I'm going to get a refreshment. Would you like something?

GARETH: I will accompany you.

BAZ: Thank you, but I will find the table easily enough. I assume you don't want a drink?

GARETH (slightly sheepish): No. I shall wait for you.

BAZ: I was so hoping you would.

(BAZ crosses the stage toward a drink cart, then pauses with a tilt of his head.)

BAZ: What's this? A dragon cannot hide in such a den of snakes as this; his nature prevents it. (Pauses.) Won't you speak? I shan't turn you in.

SIMON (looking up to meet BAZ's eyes): Firstly, I doubt that. Are you not the Pitches' heir?

BAZ: You have found me, yes. But you will also find that I am not my father's spy. Your next point?

SIMON: I'm not a dragon.

BAZ: No? You certainly have all the bluster, and you breathe from your mouth in great gusts.

SIMON: W—what? No—I—that's not true!

BAZ: You splutter like one, too, though you lack the usual fire.

(SIMON fumbles for words.)

BAZ: Peace, friend; I meant no ill intent.

SIMON: You made so magnificent a creature as a dragon sound like a buffoon.

BAZ: Not so! I have not seen a dragon, but in legends, they do not attack unless under threat. They are only protecting their own.

SIMON: Then… It was a compliment.

BAZ: Do keep up. I should think the Golden Son of Lord Cadwallader could withstand a bit of banter.

SIMON: Apparently not. (Pausing for breath) You are not as I thought you'd be.

BAZ: And you are the king of cryptics. What must I do to make you elaborate?

SIMON: Maybe you could keep talking to me?

BAZ: Perhaps I might. I am avoiding a certain bedazzled buffoon myself.

SIMON: Is that the only reason?

BAZ: Certainly not. Again, keep up.

SIMON: No, you are not like I thought you'd be at all.

BAZ: More inclined to avoidance, I expect?

SIMON: Who is it that you're hiding from?

BAZ: Everyone. But most especially, Gareth. (Points)

SIMON: He looks like a rooster in a suit coat.

BAZ: Well spotted. Though he is more of a billy goat, awkward and bumbling and far too overbearing.

SIMON (laughs): Is he an admirer of yours?

BAZ: He's certainly enamored with my status and with being in my father's good graces.

SIMON: If I could turn into a dragon, he would be the first thing I torched.

BAZ: We can be grateful that you can't breathe fire, then. You'd be exceedingly stupid to do such a thing, besides. But I think I appreciate the sentiment, if that is what it is.

SIMON: You're right. I think you could demolish him with your words better than I ever could. And it was a sentiment, though a poorly executed one. I am not as much of a wordsmith as you are.

BAZ: Good. You won't notice that I'm saying quite a lot, yet nothing at all.

SIMON: It's better than saying too few words that mean too much. I never understand subtlety.

BAZ: Then let us dispense with it altogether.

SIMON: Fine, then. If I were a dragon, I'd fly away from all this. I'm tired of it. Don't let my father know, though.

BAZ: If you were a dragon who flew far away, would you let me come with you?

SIMON: Of course. We could find a land unstained by cruelty.

BAZ: That, my dear, cannot even be found in myth. If we want a land like that, we must make it ourselves.

SIMON: Then we will.

BAZ: Good.

SIMON: House Cadwallader refuses to dignify you with your name. They always call you 'The Pitch Heir.' Might I know it?

BAZ: You may call me Baz.

SIMON: Is that your name?

BAZ: My birth name is a mouthful. This is the one I use among friends, though I have none. It is purely hypothetical, I must admit.

SIMON (takes BAZ's hand): I will be your friend. I will be something more than just an acquaintance or a passing conversation, if you wish it.

BAZ (squeezes SIMON's hand): We mustn't let anyone find out. They don't understand.

SIMON (presses a kiss into the lines of BAZ's palm): When can we remeet?

BAZ: My quarters have a balcony.

SIMON: Then there shall we cross paths. Goodbye, Baz.

SCENE FOUR: House Pitch. Baz's Bedroom.

(SIMON swings over the balcony railing, looking bedraggled but giddy. He knocks at the glass doors to Baz's bedroom.)

BAZ (appearing at the doors in a flash): Do you make a habit of breaking the rules?

SIMON: Only when it matters. Have you not slept? You look just like you did at the gala.

BAZ: Perhaps I haven't. Must you mention it?

SIMON (holding up his hands): It's all right. I was only thinking you might have been worried.

BAZ: If you must know, I was not worried. I was… I was waiting for you.

SIMON: Oh. (Touches his hand to the glass. BAZ presses his hand to the same spot.) You have me now. The sleepless wait is over, and perhaps you'll be at rest now.

BAZ (smiling faintly): Yes. Your presence is a balm, Simon. Your smile anoints my soul with the oil of comfort.

SIMON: You have the opposite effect. No, don't look so glum. Your words are lightning in the bottle of my heart.

BAZ (smirking): Scintillating metaphor.

SIMON: For you, I'll be a poet.

BAZ: Be you. Nothing more.

SIMON: Lord Cadwallader's Chosen? Baz, I know nothing of being good enough. My selfhood is scattered and illusory.

BAZ: No. Your name means nothing to me. It's a word, that's all, and words can be repurposed. They can be unmade.

But people… ah, no; people are something else. We become who we are through the stitchings of fate. Every choice we make creates a richer tapestry of who we are.

SIMON: And who is that? How do you see me?

BAZ: You are nothing like the people who raised you. You are beyond any name they could glue to as. You are a shooting star, a beautiful wonder, a ridiculous technicolor of a person.

(SIMON laughs, ducking his face behind his hands.)

BAZ: Would that our family ties would break and we could be together.

(SIMON uncovers his face and reaches for the glass door. He swings it inward and presses his hand against BAZ's.)

SIMON: See? It is done. We are together.

(They surge into a kiss, closing the last space between them.)

BAZ: What if you should change your mind? Our love would be a tumult.

SIMON: I am a disaster, Baz. But I wish for you to see my brokenness. Your chaos, your tumult, is mine as well. We will be beautiful disasters together.

BAZ: I am a disaster?

SIMON: Certainly not! You are the beautiful; I'm the disaster.

BAZ: Now you're spreading deceit. We will be disastrously beautiful and beautifully disastrous. How's that?

SIMON: Yes. Yes, Baz. Let fate not tear us apart.

BAZ: It won't. We shall create every one of our dreams. If we wish for something, it will be so.

SIMON: I would give you the sun.

BAZ: I would paint star maps of the constellations on your skin.

SIMON: I'm in love with the idea of knowing your every smile, all of the things that mean everything to you, and all of the things that you think are meaningless.

MALCOLM (offstage): Basil? Are you alright?

(BAZ kisses SIMON quickly, chastely). Tomorrow, we shall meet again. And the tomorrow after that. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

SIMON: All of my tomorrows will be yours as well. (Presses his hand briefly over Baz's heart, then turns and disappears into the shadows.)

SCENE FIVE: House Pitch. Drawing Room.

BAZ: There you are: the beginning of our star-stitched love. Every day, we dedicate ourselves to the rebellion of non-discriminating joy.

MORDELIA: When will Father have a change of heart? When will they accept you both?

BAZ: Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps never. Oftentimes, it takes a tragedy to bring about change. But they don't deserve our sadness. Our misery shall not be their excuse to reconcile.

MORDELIA: But why are they so cruel?

BAZ: Mankind will find reasons to be cruel. Others will choose to be kind.

PETRA: Like two rival houses?

BAZ (laughing softly): Not quite, my love. Pitch and Cadwallader are equally deplorable. Just don't let Father know I was the one who said it.

SOPHRONIA: When can we meet Simon?

BAZ: In good time, little puff. Good things take time. But they happen, one way or another. They always happen.