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“Hey mate. I’m so sorry to have to do this. Please believe me when I tell you that I wanted to come see the show tonight. However, against all odds, the fencing team just won the semi finals. That means we’re going into the finals, the state championships for the spring. Their championship match doesn’t start until 4:30, and since the competition is 3 hours away, I can’t get there. I feel awful, not being able to make it. I was really looking forward to it. But the team does need me here. Break a leg!”
It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t.
It was stupid, really. Shouldn’t even have mattered. It was a stupid show that Tommy wasn’t even in tonight, he was stage managing. For fucks sake, Mr. Craft had seen the show the week before when Tommy was performing. There was no reason for this to hurt.
But that didn’t stop the sinking pit in Tommy’s stomach, the burning behind his eyes he couldn’t seem to control, the way his breath caught in his chest.
He turned his phone over quickly, forcing air into his lungs and a smile on his face. It wasn’t a big deal, it wasn’t.
Mr. Craft was a busy guy. The fact that he would even attempt to take the time out of his day for Tommy- someone so small and unimportant as Tommy- should have said enough. Tommy knew Mr. Craft didn’t mean to hurt him. He knew that, of course he did. But he felt sick to his stomach.
He grabbed a sip of water and made his way through the dressing room, smiling as people passed by and nodding in acknowledgement, walking backstage and putting on his headset.
“Hey, I’m on,” he spoke into the mic.
“Hey,” Ranboo’s voice greeted back. Peeking through the curtain, Tommy could see Ranboo sitting at the caller’s table, script in hand. Ranboo called cues for the show, while Tommy cued everything from backstage. “Is Tubbo on yet?”
“Nope, not yet,” Tommy responded, searching for a sign of the brunette over on stage left. The headset went silent as Tommy’s back hit the stage wall, his spine crashing against the hard brick. He took in the dark of the stage, the murmur of the audience enjoying their intermission, the quiet static of the headset buzzing in his ears.
It’s not about you, he told himself. He has a job. It’s not about you. He hugged his knees close to his chest, a pit of loneliness opening up in his chest and creeping into his mind.
Mr. Craft had been Tommy’s theater teacher for the past three years, and now, in Tommy’s junior year, he could confidently say that Mr. Craft was so much more than that. He had been there for Tommy when no one else had- when his friends turned on him and cast him aside, when his parents screamed and lectured about how much of a disappointment he was, when spanish tests were returned with bright red Fs on top, when he wanted nothing more than to disappear. Mr. Craft was basically his best friend, and probably the only person who cared about him. He was Tommy’s role model, his hero, and the father figure he never had growing up as his dad was always gone on work trips. Mr. Craft cared when no one else had, and that was the worst part of it- because when Mr. Craft didn’t care, it meant that Tommy was really, truly alone.
He pulled back the thick blue main curtain just wide enough so that light could seep through, and pressed his face against the wall. He scanned the audience as they sat in their seats, ready for the rest of the show to begin, and couldn’t help but longingly glanced at the red velvet chairs he knew would remain empty. One of which, was saved for Mr. Craft.
“Hi! Who else is on?” a new voice crackled through the static- a quick glance across the stage told him it was Tubbo, dressed head to toe in his crew blacks with his headset messily thrown over his hair.
“Just Tommy and me so far. Any update on Jack and the spots?”
“Jack went up a few minutes ago. He should be getting here any minute.” Peeking through the curtain, Tommy could see Tubbo was correct- their bald light board operator was indeed crossing from the balcony doors to the board. “Not too sure about spots. I think Niki is already up there- not sure where Techno is, though.”
The headset crackled, noiseless, as they took in the buzz of the crowd out in the house, breathing in the moment.
“Mr. Craft's not coming.”
Silence fell over the static as Tubbo and Ranboo took in his words. They knew who Mr. Craft- what Mr. Craft was to Tommy.
“I’m sorry, man,” Ranboo began, quietly.
“Are you okay?” Tubbo asked.
“Yeah, I mean, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Mr. Craft's a busy man and all. He’s got big man shit to do,” Tommy halfheartedly joked, more trying to convince himself than his friends- and it was clear by the uncomfortable quiet that fell among them that they didn’t believe him one bit. “I-“ he began, stopping himself before he could get the words out.
I just want my dad, his heart cried desperately, an ugly feeling settling low in his stomach as his eyes began to sting. I just want my dad.
Tommy’s painful realization didn’t last long, however, as Jack’s voice came crackling through the comms.
“Hey, just got me, Niki, and Techno up. Good to go.”
“Cool. We’re just about ready in here, too,” Ranboo replied. “Tubbo, can you call places?”
“On it.”
Tommy took in a deep inhale, filling his lungs with the false bravado he knew so well and pulling himself to his feet as the actors and crew began to file into their Act 2 places. He joked with Purpled, his ASM, about sleeping through the second act rather than doing his job as the house lights flashed in warning. It was the familiarity Tommy knew and loved- the chatter of the actors half-in places, the noise of the audience, the hum of the pit re-tuning their instruments as they prepared for the second act.
“Everyone in places?” Ranboo asked, his voice filled with that pre show tension that never seemed to leave even after the tenth performance.
“Yep, we are all good backstage,” Tubbo replied, flashing a wide grin at Tommy across the stage.
“Awesome. Jack, house to half please? Here we go.”
The lights in the audience began to dim as Tommy wrapped his hands around the familiar coarse curtain ropes, waiting for his go as the music swelled into the scene. His heart hurt.
“Curtain, ready,” Ranboo began, but all Tommy could think about was the way that he wouldn’t get to prove to Mr. Craft that he could do this. “Standby, curtain,” he continued, but all Tommy could think about was the way Mr. Craft wouldn’t be proud of him the way he had pictured. How he wouldn’t see Mr. Craft's beaming grin and kind eyes, hear his brutally honest opinions or have one of those rare moments where Mr. Craft would offer him a hug, where Tommy would gladly accept and melt into his dad’s- Mr. Craft's- arms and feel, for the first time in his life, safe. “Go curtain,” Ranboo finally called, and as Tommy pulled the ropes and the show began, all he could remember were Mr. Craft's words: “The team needs me here.”
As if Tommy didn’t.