Shakespeare in the Park.
Aug. 20th, 2019 10:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sohoangel(Set pre-Apocalypse)
Of all the thousands of ways that Aziraphale had seen Shakespeare performed over the centuries, his favorite was on a stage outdoors in the park. Surrounded by a lively audience, it felt closest to those performances at the original Globe, as opposed to the stuffy nature of many a low-light theater.
He was at such an event now, a free afternoon performance for park-goers. He had invited Crowley to join him but it was easier for a gardener to take time off than a nanny, so it was just him sitting on a spread-out tartan blanket, facing the raised wooden stage and watching a local theatre company perform Romeo and Juliet.
It was one of Aziraphale’s favorites, and not because it was one of the “gloomy” ones. It was a play about love, and even a chaste angel such as himself couldn’t resist the sweet, flowery language that the titular characters spoke to one another. Shakespeare had such a wonderful way with words. He was so glad that the man’s plays continued to be appreciated by so many humans.
The crowd tonight, for example, was quite extensive. Many couples were in attendance, both old and young. It made the other side of his blanket a little emptier because of it, but he pushed away the feeling and focused on the play.
That was a problem of his lately. Focusing. It was the stress of trying to prevent Armageddon. On the surface, the plan appeared to be going well — Warlock was about as normal as a human child could get, even if he was turning into a bit of a… well, he wasn’t the sweet little boy who used to keep him company in the garden anymore. Crowley said that was typical for children his age. But Crowley also said that the boy was too normal, and that’s what Aziraphale’s mind kept coming back to when he was trying to relax and read, or enjoy a meal, or watch one of his favorite plays.
Because how could the boy be too normal? He was the anti-christ. Shouldn’t he be at least a little different? What if what they were doing wasn’t making a difference after all, and they wouldn’t find out until it was too late?
On stage, Mercutio collapsed after receiving a fatal stab wound. “A plague on both your houses!” he declared bitterly before he died.
Aziraphale sighed to himself. There he was, losing focus again. He should be paying attention to the play. The actors were quite good, Juliet especially. He could see her love for Romeo all the way from here, how torn she felt between giving herself to him freely and her loyalty to her family. Romeo didn’t seem as broken up about that. An interesting interpretation, as they should both care very much what their families thought about a possible relationship between a Capulet and a Montague, warring families who demanded filial loyalty above all else.
And yet, Romeo was determined to win Juliet’s love. He wooed her with sweet words and praised her very nature. He didn’t care that she was from a family opposed to his. By all rights, they should hate one another as much as the rest of their families, and somehow they fell in love.
One could blame it on the foolishness of youth, or perhaps a rebellious streak in either lover. But in that expertly crafted dialogue, lines that Aziraphale himself watched William write and re-write until they were perfect —
Those words spoke real love. Why else would they be tugging so relentlessly at Aziraphale’s heart?
And though he had seen this play so many times, had silently read those words in the back room of his bookshop until he had them memorized, as he watched Friar Laurence’s plan fall apart and Romeo grieve for a love he thought he had lost forever, Aziraphale felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes and his chest ache.
“Don’t do it,” he whispered, as Romeo held up his bottle of poison, intending to join his beloved in death. “You stupid boy, she’s about to wake up. Be patient. Please.”
”It’s wonderful,” Aziraphale said to the chuffed playwright, handing back the manuscript with a bright smile. “One of your best yet, Will. I can’t wait to see it on stage.”
“You flatter me, Mister Fell.” Will leaned back on the tavern bench and sighed. “Although I can’t help but wonder if I should make this one a comedy instead.”
“What, why?” Aziraphale reached for the wine jug on the table and was disappointed to find it empty. “It’s such a deliciously tragic romance.”
“It is,” Will conceded, stroking his beard. “It’s only… well. This might sound foolish, but as I was writing, I couldn’t help but find myself rooting for my young lovers. Might be nice to give them a happy ending instead. God knows we could all use one of those.”
“But then how will the two families reconcile at the end? They need the loss of their children to set aside their —“
“Oh, let their families stew in their own bitter juices,” Will said with a bright laugh and a dismissive wave of his hand. Aziraphale let out a small affronted gasp and Will grinned at him. “Ah, I see you don’t agree. Perhaps I need a second opinion. Where’s your friend, that red-haired gentleman? He always prefers my comedies.”
“He’s not my friend,” Aziraphale said automatically, followed by a dismissive sniff for good measure. “Will, honestly, the play won’t make sense as a comedy. You can’t have them just… run off together, without repercussions.”
The playwright fixed him with a shrewd look. “And why can’t I, Mr. Fell? Why can’t I give them a happy ending?”
“Because… because they can’t have one. It simply isn’t possible.” He meant to sound matter-of-fact, but there was a distinct note of misery in Aziraphale’s voice. He dropped his gaze and fussed with the hem of his doublet. “Not with their families so at odds.”
The playwright watched him a moment or two longer before clapping a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder in good cheer. “Alas, if my benefactor says it is not meant to be, then it is not meant to be. Consider it my final draft, so long as you are willing to fetch us another jug of wine to celebrate.”
On stage, Romeo drank from the bottle and choked out his final lines. “Thus with a kiss I die,” he hissed to the audience before slouching against Juliet’s tomb and lying still.
He never listened. No matter how many times Aziraphale whispered for Romeo to wait, he never listened.
That, he thought, was the real tragedy.
Of all the thousands of ways that Aziraphale had seen Shakespeare performed over the centuries, his favorite was on a stage outdoors in the park. Surrounded by a lively audience, it felt closest to those performances at the original Globe, as opposed to the stuffy nature of many a low-light theater.
He was at such an event now, a free afternoon performance for park-goers. He had invited Crowley to join him but it was easier for a gardener to take time off than a nanny, so it was just him sitting on a spread-out tartan blanket, facing the raised wooden stage and watching a local theatre company perform Romeo and Juliet.
It was one of Aziraphale’s favorites, and not because it was one of the “gloomy” ones. It was a play about love, and even a chaste angel such as himself couldn’t resist the sweet, flowery language that the titular characters spoke to one another. Shakespeare had such a wonderful way with words. He was so glad that the man’s plays continued to be appreciated by so many humans.
The crowd tonight, for example, was quite extensive. Many couples were in attendance, both old and young. It made the other side of his blanket a little emptier because of it, but he pushed away the feeling and focused on the play.
That was a problem of his lately. Focusing. It was the stress of trying to prevent Armageddon. On the surface, the plan appeared to be going well — Warlock was about as normal as a human child could get, even if he was turning into a bit of a… well, he wasn’t the sweet little boy who used to keep him company in the garden anymore. Crowley said that was typical for children his age. But Crowley also said that the boy was too normal, and that’s what Aziraphale’s mind kept coming back to when he was trying to relax and read, or enjoy a meal, or watch one of his favorite plays.
Because how could the boy be too normal? He was the anti-christ. Shouldn’t he be at least a little different? What if what they were doing wasn’t making a difference after all, and they wouldn’t find out until it was too late?
On stage, Mercutio collapsed after receiving a fatal stab wound. “A plague on both your houses!” he declared bitterly before he died.
Aziraphale sighed to himself. There he was, losing focus again. He should be paying attention to the play. The actors were quite good, Juliet especially. He could see her love for Romeo all the way from here, how torn she felt between giving herself to him freely and her loyalty to her family. Romeo didn’t seem as broken up about that. An interesting interpretation, as they should both care very much what their families thought about a possible relationship between a Capulet and a Montague, warring families who demanded filial loyalty above all else.
And yet, Romeo was determined to win Juliet’s love. He wooed her with sweet words and praised her very nature. He didn’t care that she was from a family opposed to his. By all rights, they should hate one another as much as the rest of their families, and somehow they fell in love.
One could blame it on the foolishness of youth, or perhaps a rebellious streak in either lover. But in that expertly crafted dialogue, lines that Aziraphale himself watched William write and re-write until they were perfect —
Those words spoke real love. Why else would they be tugging so relentlessly at Aziraphale’s heart?
And though he had seen this play so many times, had silently read those words in the back room of his bookshop until he had them memorized, as he watched Friar Laurence’s plan fall apart and Romeo grieve for a love he thought he had lost forever, Aziraphale felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes and his chest ache.
“Don’t do it,” he whispered, as Romeo held up his bottle of poison, intending to join his beloved in death. “You stupid boy, she’s about to wake up. Be patient. Please.”
”It’s wonderful,” Aziraphale said to the chuffed playwright, handing back the manuscript with a bright smile. “One of your best yet, Will. I can’t wait to see it on stage.”
“You flatter me, Mister Fell.” Will leaned back on the tavern bench and sighed. “Although I can’t help but wonder if I should make this one a comedy instead.”
“What, why?” Aziraphale reached for the wine jug on the table and was disappointed to find it empty. “It’s such a deliciously tragic romance.”
“It is,” Will conceded, stroking his beard. “It’s only… well. This might sound foolish, but as I was writing, I couldn’t help but find myself rooting for my young lovers. Might be nice to give them a happy ending instead. God knows we could all use one of those.”
“But then how will the two families reconcile at the end? They need the loss of their children to set aside their —“
“Oh, let their families stew in their own bitter juices,” Will said with a bright laugh and a dismissive wave of his hand. Aziraphale let out a small affronted gasp and Will grinned at him. “Ah, I see you don’t agree. Perhaps I need a second opinion. Where’s your friend, that red-haired gentleman? He always prefers my comedies.”
“He’s not my friend,” Aziraphale said automatically, followed by a dismissive sniff for good measure. “Will, honestly, the play won’t make sense as a comedy. You can’t have them just… run off together, without repercussions.”
The playwright fixed him with a shrewd look. “And why can’t I, Mr. Fell? Why can’t I give them a happy ending?”
“Because… because they can’t have one. It simply isn’t possible.” He meant to sound matter-of-fact, but there was a distinct note of misery in Aziraphale’s voice. He dropped his gaze and fussed with the hem of his doublet. “Not with their families so at odds.”
The playwright watched him a moment or two longer before clapping a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder in good cheer. “Alas, if my benefactor says it is not meant to be, then it is not meant to be. Consider it my final draft, so long as you are willing to fetch us another jug of wine to celebrate.”
On stage, Romeo drank from the bottle and choked out his final lines. “Thus with a kiss I die,” he hissed to the audience before slouching against Juliet’s tomb and lying still.
He never listened. No matter how many times Aziraphale whispered for Romeo to wait, he never listened.
That, he thought, was the real tragedy.
