life's a stage.

They say opera is a dying art — but there will always be people willing to give up their lives for it. [ A 1x1 OC RP Blog. ]

[attheopcra]

fine.

[attheopcra]

ogandco:

Camille feigned an enormous yawn and nestled her chin in her palm. “Do save your breath, Duval,” she said, mimicking his slow drawl, “besides”—she gestured to the cameras, the scuttling crew members and make-up artists—“we’ll be locked in here together for God knows how long—you’re stuck with me, ‘bearable’ or not.”

“Oh—and before I forget.” She tilted her head sideways as she sifted blindly through her knapsack, a chunk of short dark hair spilling onto her cheek. Once she found whatever it was she sought, she gave a huff and flung the bag to the ground; it landed with a soft plop, a few of its ingredients scattering onto carpeted floor—a tiny box of band-aids, a crumpled grocery store coupon, a portable voice recorder, and a half-dozen or so of mint candies.

Camille hardly seemed to notice.

“Here we are.” In her hand was a thermos flask; she held it up to her colleague, a trace of a frown forming between her brows—not so much out of hostility, but a reluctant sort of sincerity, perhaps. “Tea for post-rehearsal sore throats,” she explained with a heave of a sigh, “it’s got lemon juice and honey”—she counted off with her fingers—“a bit of ginger—no alcohol, no sugar, and I should mention—no cyanide.” A droll, nose-wrinkling smile quirked her lip. “Probably.”

Her legs dangled below her as she added, “By the way, this doesn’t mean I don’t despise you still. Because I do—and I know you don’t exactly enjoy my company, either. You’re an ass, Duval, but while we’re here, we’re partners, hence”—she meaningfully eyed the flask—“the olive branch.”

Her mimicking of his tone, the slight accent that he took pains to hide behind a sophisticated dialect, did nothing for his mood. He was a success -- he worked his way away from the lifestyle that gave him that accent, and felt no warmth or familiarity towards it. So hearing it spoken back to him so sardonically, linked inexorably to him, made him clench his fists and glare at her.

Maybe it was that -- or maybe it was her oblique threat of poison, or her reminder of just how much they despised each other -- that made her “olive branch” somewhat less than effective. “You radiate sincerity, princess -- unless you’re calling yourself a prince again, these days. It’s tough to keep track.” He made himself comfortable on one of the ornate chairs that made up the set.

But he did take the flask. Whether or not that meant he accepted the gesture as well was up for debate.

The old theater company he’d been trapped with didn’t even have hot water, half the time. And he certainly wasn’t able to afford the sort of thermos that would keep his tea warm all through rehearsal. If he had, one of the others probably would have dumped the tea out as a joke. No need to take his voice seriously in a place like that, after all. He sipped at the tea, thinking a bit bitterly that Camille had probably been drinking it since she was old enough to speak. She didn’t have to work for her career, so why should she had to have worked for tea?

“Alcohol might have been a good idea,” he said, handing the flask back. “Considering the circumstances.” How he preferred solo shoots! Where the attention was on him and only him. He didn’t like sharing it with anyone, much less the spoiled daughter of some actor who was only famous because of her last name.

[attheopcra]

fine.

Remy felt like he always felt after rehearsals -- vindicated and altogether pleased with himself. Then again, he also felt like that before rehearsals. And during rehearsals. And just about all the time, these days. Since joining the Opera Populaire, all of his dreams were realized. He proved himself worthy of his place, of all the adoration. He proved himself better than the family that didn’t want him and the former employers who scoffed at him. Why shouldn’t he feel pleased with himself?

But as he checked the schedule on his phone, some of his happy feelings disappeared. He was to stay after for a photo shoot with his leading lady -- or whatever she was calling herself these days -- Camille. Although they played off of each other well, there was no love lost between the two. Perhaps the passion that they often carried on stage was just a manifestation of the loathing they had for each other.

Straightening his costume, he walked back out on stage to see the cameras already setting up -- and Camille already sitting on one of the prop chairs. “Well, this should be a bit more bearable than acting with you,” he drawled in way of greeting. “At least in a photo shoot, you don’t have any lines to forget.” He couldn’t help criticizing every mistake she made harshly. She didn’t have to work from her position. She was born into it, practically. She had it all -- the famous father, the intrigue that came from her revealing herself as a girl later in life -- and she had never known want, or even disinterest. She didn’t know what it was like to play before a crowd of bored simpletons. She didn’t know what it was like to be hated by her own family. She didn’t even know what it was like to be hungry. Her position in the Opera was given, not earned.

[attheopcra]

angel.

[attheopcra]

ogandco:

He wore shirtsleeves under a heavy overcoat—its coloring reminiscent of the firs of an evergreen—and his hands smelled of a whisper of black inks, hardened yet glossy still on his fingertips; ghosts of the music notes he’d not yet bled onto paper, and likely never would. The hour grew late. Through his—or rather, Andre’s—plushly curtained office windows he could glimpse a quickly-sinking sun and the bobbing heads of the local passersby as they retreated to their homes—though he didn’t doubt that amongst the crowd was a greater number of gluttonous night owls, cooking delicious plans of rendezvous in Paris’s most delightful of boulevards.

Whilst massaging the muscles in his shoulders—stiffened during his hours’ long episodes of orchestrating his nouveau opéra—he lit a table side lamp, casting shadow and light alike into the otherwise dim chamber. “Hello, Gilles,” he said, eyes fixated on the unmoving figure by the arched window; the namesake thing stirred—a gargoyle of a creature with a missing eye, a protruding belly and clipped ear, to boot—and further materialized from the abyss with a catlike sound. Andre’s alley cat in Andre’s office in Andre’s corridors—his faux-father was dead in flesh only, for Hugo Andre breathed and moved mischievously within the walls of the Opéra Populaire, quite alive and in all probability quite well also—as he was an eagerer participant in Luc’s day-to-day life than he ever was when undead: for him, Luc fed the monstrous cat—for him, he signed a myriad of bills and questionnaires—for him, he’d taken a new name and title: Luc Andre, Manager of the Opéra Populaire.

Luc fed the cat and slipped away from Andre’s office and into the corridors—quietly, furtively, so as to shield himself from its deceased master’s ‘vigilance’. He walked aimlessly, eyes fluttered closed, his ink-stained fingers brushing against wall upon patterned wall—marble and wood and stone, all ice-cold to the touch, and whose names he knew by heart since his boyhood—until he came to a standstill, lashes lifting, head tilting ever-so-slightly-

-a voice? Yes - a Woman’s voice, mingled with that of an out-of-tune piano; both bumbling, yes, but purer than a natural harmonic, surely. His eyes flitted to the antique watch on his wrist, whose soft ticking seemed to surge to a crescendo as it enveloped him - the voice, a woman’s voice - what time - no, it was long past rehearsal hours - tick - who - tock - could - tick - it - tock - be ?

He trod closer still to the sound, to the voice, brows knitted in confusion, curiosity, and something akin to a niggling frustration, perhaps—why he felt the latter he could not fathom—until he realized he’d heard this voice before—the warm tones, the amateurish clarity—why yes, he knew every opera rat in the house, from the prima donnas to the smallest of fledgling ballerinas—and this voice was no exception—yes, it belonged to-

“Mademoiselle Lemaire,” he murmured, dark eyes widened. The color rose in his cheeks when her piano-playing teetered to a pause; though reluctant to reveal himself, he cleared his throat, licked his lips. “Hello,” he said—and for all the roiling thoughts in his head he sounded immaculately tranquil, and moreover, devoid of passion—but when his eyes found hers, an obliging smile lifted the corners of his mouth and there it lingered for a fleeting moment. “Perhaps you haven’t realized it, but rehearsal hours are over”—he tapped his watch—“and they have been for quite a while—three hours and thirty-four minutes, to be exact.”

She didn’t know who she was expecting to step out into the open, but it wasn’t him. Luc Andre, son of the recently deceased Hugo Andre, Manager of the Opera Populaire. He was the subject of endless speculation, the girls in the company often chattering away about him in between scenes. The fact that they rarely -- if ever -- saw him only made him more enticing. Half of the company whispered rumors of forbidden trysts and strange meetings in the dead of night -- ‘oh, yes, a friend of a friend saw him, he kissed her hand, and then ...’

Estelle had never been one for these rumors, and certainly never one for the fervent daydreams that most of the male-attracted cast seemed to harbor. She didn’t have time for romance, even of the imaginary kind. Her entire being -- her whole self was dedicated to her goal. She would not be distracted then, and she would not be distracted now. So while most of her castmates would be shocked and flustered by this turn of events, Estelle merely squared her shoulders and returned his smile -- with a smile of professional warmth, not flirtation.

“I didn’t realize,” she said primly, “That art had a curfew.” To anyone else, she might have delivered that line sharply, but the knowledge that she was talking to her new boss made it come across as more sheepish than anything else. Or at least, as sheepish as Estelle Lemaire was ever apt to get. She was, after all, the woman who had pestered her way into the business, shamelessly contacting the father who wanted nothing to do with her again and again until she had gotten the answer she wanted.

She rarely apologized, but one seemed politic at the moment. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” she said, leaning against the piano, “But I can’t rehearse at home. The landlord told me he’d kick me out if I got another noise complaint.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. As if those mindless drones in her thin-walled apartment complex knew anything about art. She couldn’t wait until she was able to move into a house of her own, where she could sing as loudly as she wished.

“I’m playing a silent role in the current production,” she said by way of explanation. “And I need to practice singing. I’m going to be the lead soprano one day, so I need to rehearse.” She spoke bluntly, leaving no room for doubt. Not ‘I want to be lead soprano’ or ‘I’m trying to become lead soprano.’ She knew what her destiny was, knew what she was truly meant to be. And the only way to become lead soprano was to practice -- therefore, she would practice.

[attheopcra]

angel.

     Estelle hugged her tote a little closer to her as she made her way through the narrow door frame. The practice room was small, with an old piano that had a few broken keys up at the very top, but in her years since coming to the opera house she had marked it out as hers. She rather liked it, in truth. Let her start out in a humble setting. One day she’d have the entire stage at her command, and when that happened she could look at her little rehearsal room and laugh. It might even be a fun story to tell.

     She pulled a water bottle out of her bag, set her tote aside, and sat at the piano. The back of it was set against a wall-length mirror, so she could watch her expressions while she sang. She gave her hair a quick toss, screwing up her face for a moment -- it was a silly little instinct, something she always did when she was looking in the mirror. Then she put her fingers on the keys and started playing careful scales (the only thing she could play, truly), singing along to warm-up her vocal chords.

     She was playing a silent role in the company’s current production, and she had been so busy with rehearsal for that, she was dreadfully out of practice. She hadn’t rehearsed singing in days. It was just unacceptable. She could feel her vocal chords fighting against her, refusing to go past a certain octave. That wouldn’t do -- she had managed to hit at least two notes higher the last time. She paused, preparing to go back ... and then her fingers stopped, hovering over the keys. Was that someone’s voice? “Uh ... Hello?” She swore she heard someone speaking, muffled -- down the hall, or in the next room over. And it almost sounded like they had said her name.