Chapter Text

"Diegesis is...all of the elements that exist in the universe."

- Lindsay Ellis, Joel Schumacher's Phantom of the Opera: A Video Essay

Casting is 65 percent of directing.
– John Frankenheimer

Midtown, Atlanta was abuzz with life on the Sunday morning that Astarion drove into the city. He watched the cars flow past at the stoplight on 14th and Spring, the never-ending river of vehicles occasionally broken up by lifted trucks or duo-chrome wraps. He sighed and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, mumbling along to the Chappell Roan song blaring out of the speakers of his Toyota Corolla. He missed the city. He missed the bustle of life that never seemed to cease, the constant ebb and flow of construction, and the detours that diverted commuters around whatever new movie was filming that week.

Pulling into a spot in the garage and warbling the last few notes of the song, he turned off his car and stepped outside into the crisp early spring air. He should have brought a jacket or a hat, but his outfit didn’t look good with anything he owned. It wasn’t that cold; he could suffer a little for fashion. His fitted black tank top hugged his ribs, flowing down his long torso to be tucked into a pair of ripped, gray skinny jeans. His curly, silver hair blew in the wind and he gripped his shoulders. Maybe he could persuade Shadowheart to sit inside.

To his relief, it was much warmer in the sun where Shadowheart sat on the patio of their favorite brunch spot. He sat down across from her and tapped his foot while she finished sending a text. She glanced up at him, made a snide face, and sighed loudly when he made a face back. Several more frantic taps later, Shadowheart set her phone face down on the table and looked at him.

Astarion met Shadowheart at the start of college almost a decade ago, both having moved to the States from the UK. The brunette in front of him stuck with him through thick and thin, and he stuck with her in turn. Though there were fights, they’d been supportive of the other for as long as they’d known each other. Astarion couldn’t help but remember how they each helped the other through their transitions. He was so thankful to have a friend like Shadowheart. Of course, he had other friends, people he’d met on sets and a few of the other young, queer employees at the quilt shop where he worked, but it all came back to Shadowheart.

“You’re actually on time for once,” she scoffed. She cocked an eyebrow at him and he huffed in indignation.

“Excuse me, no ‘Hello, Astarion,’ ‘Nice to see you, Astarion?’” he shot back. “I can be on time if I want to be.”

“Ah, so college was because you didn’t want to see me, is that it?” This was a game they were well accustomed to playing. Astarion was perpetually fifteen minutes late, an occurrence that was often enough that Shadowheart started telling him the wrong times for things so he would show up on time.

“I couldn’t seem desperate, could I?”

She chuckled, grabbing her bloody mary to take a swig. Her phone vibrated again and the liquid in her cup sloshed dangerously close to the sides as she snatched the device from the table.

“Yes!” She said triumphantly, shaking her phone in her excitement.

“Good news?”

“Excellent news! Turns out the costumer on the gig I’m working on isn’t coming back. I just got the text telling me I should bring you in to meet the director.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Astarion’s eyes went wide. He didn’t mind working at the small quilt shop in the affluent neighborhood, but he wanted something more. His life felt stagnant, where he stood now. Every day was the same with little variation. He wanted some excitement back in his life. This was the opportunity he’d been wanting, and God damn it if he wasn’t going to seize it by the balls. “You’re absolutely sure?”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m sure. Can you come with me later today?”

“I’m not working today,” Taking a pause to order his drink—a mimosa—to celebrate; Astarion continued, “When’s your call time?”

“In a few hours, we can go straight there from here after we’re done eating.”

Astarion nodded in agreement, taking a moment to order his meal when the waitress stopped by. “I’ll let you lead the way, darling.”

“I think you’ll really like the show runner, she’s very invested in making the source material less, uh, nonsensical.”

“Oh come now. Everyone loves a bit of camp.” Astarion smirked, flopping his wrist over to emphasize his point.

“It’s not camp. It’s just stupid.”

“Rather than going on and on about how annoyed you are at this drivel, why don’t you tell me what the project is. I’m shaking in my boots, darling,” Astarion smirked. He took a long drag of his mimosa and looked out at the road where cars whizzed past. A billboard over a parking lot across the street advertised the local hospital.

“A Court of Thorns and Roses.” Shadowheart wrinkled her nose. Astarion barked out a laugh. During the pandemic, he found his way onto booktok and read every single piece of fantasy romance—or ‘romantacy,’ if he were using the common parlance—he could get his hands on. A Court of Thorns and Roses certainly wasn’t the worst thing he read, but he definitely judged the accounts calling the book the best thing they’d ever read.

A memory flashed through him: an announcement of an ACOTAR tv show by some streaming service. There was enough death and sex in those books to be somewhat comparable to Game of Thrones, so maybe it would sell just as well.

“Good to hear they’re working on that again,” Astarion checked his nail beds. His cuticles were immaculate.

“As we all know, sex sells,” Shadowheart muttered. She waved her hand in the air dismissively. “I just wish the books weren’t so straight.”

Astarion snorted. The fact that there was a singular queer character in the books so far had irked him as well. “Not to become a parody of myself, but wouldn’t it have been so much more interesting if the lead was trans? Either direction, I don’t really care.”

“I’d rather her learn to read, first,” Shadowheart laughed. “That is how these popular fantasy books go, it seems.”

“So what actor are you coaching on how to use his god given gifts this time?” Astarion asked, spearing a bite of his food on his fork.

Shadowheart snorted, taking a bite of her own food before responding. “Petras Morozov and Gale Dekarios.”

“Wait, which is which?” Astarion asked. Images of the normally brunet Gale Dekarios in a shitty blond wig flashed through his mind. “Please don’t tell me he’s playing the blond one.”

“No, of course not. Have you seen his brow line? He was made for brooding and crooked smiles.”

“Booktok would call him a shadow daddy, darling, and I might be obliged to, as well,” Astarion whispered seductively. Shadowheart rolled her eyes and downed the last of her bloody mary.

“Also, I don’t tell them how to do their jobs,” Shadowheart frowned. “I do the choreography and make sure everyone feels safe on set.”

“God, when you say it like that it’s so boring,” Astarion waved the waiter over for their checks. “Can I keep telling people I meet that my best friend teaches people how to fuck on camera?”

“You’re a menace!” Shadowheart threw her hands up in the air. “An absolute plague upon my good reputation.”

“Oh, darling!” Astarion grinned at his best friend, cocking a shoulder coyly. “What good reputation?”

“Thank you,” Shadowheart said to the waiter when they returned the checks to the table. Astarion knew he’d won if she was ignoring him. He signed his name to the check with a flourish and grabbed his phone and keys.

“Where is this place, anyway?”

“Corey Tower,” Shadowheart pulled out her own phone and sent him the address.

“Oh, excellent, I already know where that is.”

Shadowheart waved at him, beginning to walk towards street parking. “Then I’ll see you there.”

The drive to the studio was mostly uneventful, but Astarion couldn’t stop himself from belting every song that came up on shuffle. From sea shanties to Lana Del Ray, he sang along to every song, not skipping a single one. As he sat in traffic singing along to the Mamma Mia soundtrack, he looked up to the studio’s tower, the garish digital billboard gracing downtown with a broadcast about the space beneath being available to rent.

When he pulled into the parking space, Shadowheart was already leaning against the hood of her beat up Jeep. Astarion always teased her about driving the car all lesbians drove, to which Shadowheart would indignantly respond that she wasn’t a lesbian.

“How’s the old girl,” he asked, getting out of his car and shutting the door.

Shadowheart scowled at him but answered anyway. “The oil isn’t leaking anymore, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“So it’s less of a death trap on wheels, good to know,” he quipped back. She groaned at him and turned around, the blonde tip of her braid whipping around her shoulder.

“God! That damned poster jumpscares me every time. They had to pick the worst possible picture of Dalyria that they could.”

Astarion looked up to the poster, following Shadowheart’s gaze. The massive tapestry adorning the wall of the studio was certainly striking. The first thing he saw was Orin Anchev, an actress often typecast as the villain in a story. A good pick for the red headed bitch from the book. Then the poster drew his eye to Petras Morozov, his cheeks and eyes adorned with a mask made of beautiful scrollwork. Dalyria Wolff was pressed up against him, looking for all the world like she was about to start crying. The way Petras possessively grasped Dalyria’s shoulders made his stomach turn. The character he was portraying, Tamlin, was a piece of shit. Astarion was all too familiar with that specific kind of possessive man.

“God, is Petras’ chin that big in real life?” Astarion stared at the poster. Shadowheart cackled beside him. He turned to make another jab at the actor, but what he saw in his peripheral vision made his heart stop beating, his blood turning to ice in his veins.

Astarion’s head spun. He was being suffocated by the humidity and city heat, waves of nausea rushing over him and making him feel claustrophobic. Even the sun seemed to dim. The tiny logo of Ascendant Studios on the gigantic poster struck out at him like a vampire, sinking memories into his throat like fangs. Thoughts of Cazador Szarr flooded into him, their venom violating his body and sucking the humanity from him. He knew he was panicking. He could feel the physical evidence in his body, making his legs weak and a chasm open him up and bifurcate his sternum. The void within him threatened to devour him whole, his anxiety clawing its way out of his chest with long, spindly fingers and sharp claws. His flesh shredded beneath the beast’s touch, a touch which should have been gentle and soothing, but the beast didn’t know its own strength.

The asphalt roughly bit into his knees and palms. Sound roared in his ears. He couldn’t tell if it was his own blood or the highway. Astarion blinked, slowly drifting back into his own head. Words were being said to him. No, words were being yelled at him. To him?

His palms hurt. He rolled onto his side to sit on a hip, blinking in the sudden daylight. When did the sun come out?

“Astarion?!”

“Yes?” He answered the voice. He couldn’t tell who it was—just that it wasn’t Cazador.

“Astarion, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

This time his answer was firm. The voice—Shadowheart’s voice—was reassuring.

He looked up, blinking against the sun and staring into the face of his friend.

“Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?” Shadowheart was worried. Frantic, even.

Astarion tried to say the name of the production company. He wanted—no, needed to make sure Shadowheart understood why he collapsed. He tried to force the name of his ex-boyfriend and abuser through his lips and immediately turned, vomiting on the pavement.

Coughing weakly, Astarion looked back to Shadowheart and pointed at the poster. Her eyes followed his indication and her mouth dropped open when she saw where he pointed. “Fuck.”

“You can say that again, darling,” he groused. He pushed himself to his knees, avoiding the mess he’d made as he stood. When he was finally upright, he leaned against his car, catching his breath.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think of that, I’ll tell Izzy that you decided—” Astarion cut Shadowheart off with a held up hand.

“I’m fucking done with that bastard ruining my life,” he grit out. “I won’t let him win.”

“If you’re sure...” she raised a brow at him. He appreciated her concern, but the whiplash of being over the moon for another shot at his dream job to a completely debilitating panic attack had left him with a strange sense of clarity.

“How often is he on set?”

“I haven’t seen him once,” Shadowheart chewed at her bottom lip. “I’ve worked on other Ascendant Studios productions and he’s never been on set.”

“Really?” Astarion’s brows shot up. It wasn’t like Cazador to give up control.

From the moment they met at an art show nearly ten years ago, Cazador had an air of possessiveness about him. Messages about being two years older in the same major in college led to desperate rutting in Astarion’s dorm room. A tearful love confession after Astarion was wrongfully fired from his first industry job led to painful codependence. A near break up led to Astarion spending thousands on flights to visit his perfect partner in Austin, Texas. A cross country move led to Astarion being trapped, forced to run mazes for Cazador’s enjoyment. A horrific ‘accident’ led to a hospital bed and spinal surgery.

The memories of seven years of his life flashed by in an instant. Astarion had been free of the controlling thumb of his ex-boyfriend, Cazador Szarr, for nearly five years. The scars on his back from his ‘accident’ tingled. The ‘accident’ that had not been an accident at all. Cazador told him as much when he carried a crumpled Astarion back to his office. Cazador himself rigged the catwalk to fall and made sure the massive spotlight would fall after. He couldn’t have planned it more perfectly, in fact! Two perfect, concentric circles burned directly in the center of Astarion’s back. He kept talking as he plucked a shard of glass from Astarion’s skin and dug it into his partner’s flesh.

“You need to be reminded of who owns you.”

A cut.

“I pay your bills.”

Another.

“I put food on our table.”

A third. A fourth.

“All you are is a waste.”

More, more, more.

“And now you want to talk to me about ‘pronouns?’”

Slice after slice.

“You’re my girlfriend.”

All to remind Astarion that Cazador saw him as his property.

“Now that I’ve turned you into a proper piece of art...”

Astarion heard a buckle clink.

“If you want to be a man so much, then I’m going to fuck you like one.”

No one checked for that at the hospital. The doctors and nurses were much more worried about his third degree burns and very nearly broken spine. He only told Shadowheart about all of it when they were safely in her apartment back in Atlanta.

The phantom pain always seemed to plague him after intense nightmares or panic attacks about the horrible man. Astarion was lucky to be able to afford his fistfull of psychiatric pills in the morning and his weekly testosterone shot. He was so grateful he was privileged enough to get the help he needed. With his support system, Astarion’s mind was made up. He could do this.

“What is the bastard doing if he’s not sticking his nose into everything,” Astarion asked Shadowheart. She shrugged.

“I think he got more involved in the money side of things after his succubus of a PR lady made everything about your fall blow over. There were rumors that he wasn’t allowed to come to the set by whoever the ‘angel investor’ was that funded his company when he first started.”

“The only thing that could pull on his leash would be the devil he sold his soul to for that damned production company,” Astarion was angry. He fought tooth and nail to get where he was. Shadowheart advocated for him and they were desperate. He might not have been given the opportunity otherwise, but Cazador had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

I will not let him control my life.

“Are the people on the set Ascendant employees?” Astarion asked. Some flunky telling Cazador of Astarion’s whereabouts was the only thing he could think of that would put him in true danger.

“No, actually,” Shadowheart confirmed. “For some reason he can’t seem to keep employees, so the network handled all that.”

“Perfect. Well, off we go, then!” Astarion grabbed Shadowheart’s wrist and dragged her away from their cars, towards the studio doors.

Astarion took one last look up at the poster when he and Shadowheart walked into the building.

The set smelled like Astarion remembered. It was probably a membrane of mildew and rot laced throughout the walls causing the smell, but Astarion didn’t care. He breathed in deeply through his nose, savoring the redolence of the air. It reminded him of being backstage in theater productions in secondary school. Even then, he was enamored with every aspect of performance. He could perform any role asked of him on a stage production set... barring lights.

The lighting rig at the theater had been old and temperamental; the theater requiring an adult to run lighting. Astarion had never cared, he was much more interested in the other aspects: sound design, set building, stage management, and especially costuming. He often wondered if the small tidbit of his history was why Cazador was always so insistent he run lights.

Shadowheart dragged him through the sets, them now being properly inside the studio. He let himself be herded along doggedly, his eyes wandering over the myriad of colors and shapes present amongst stored sets. The assault of life and history present in the old set pieces on his senses was not unwelcome. This much stimulation, this much going on at a given time had a quieting effect on his mind. He felt at home, here amongst the skeletons of productions past.

“Shadowheart?” Someone called out. Shadowheart led him through a Grecian arch and they emerged into a wonderland. Astarion couldn’t help but stagger forward to take in what he beheld before him. Tens of stagehands swarmed over the partially finished set, each drone having a certain job to do for their queen. One person held a paint sprayer, turning what used to be a mass of foam and plaster into the craggy rock wall of a cave. Another fluffed pillows and draped fabric around a cruel throne built to look as if it were wrought out of iron as dark as adamant.

“Astarion? You still with us?”

“Hmm?” It was difficult to stop his eyes from lingering on every person’s minute job. All the stagehands worked together in symbiosis to create something truly magical. He turned his head to look back at Shadowheart and who he assumed was the showrunner. Her platinum hair was tucked up into a pink baseball cap with a small lesbian flag embroidered on it. Astarion smiled, sticking out his hand to shake the woman’s.

“Isobel,” she introduced herself.

“Astarion.”

She jerked her head over her shoulder to the under construction set. “Have you read the books?”

“Unfortunately,” Astarion made a face, but followed it quickly with a smile.

“That bad, huh?”

“Now, I wouldn’t say they were awful, just very...” Astarion searched for an appropriate word.

“Straight?” Both Isobel and Shadowheart said in unison. Astarion giggled, his laughter bubbling out of him.

“Really, you’d think that she could have made her self-insert character less obtuse,” he quipped. “Truly awful character writing.”

“I hope to improve that,” Isobel nodded in Astarion’s direction. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”

Isobel led them over to a hallway of doors, each one labeled with the name of the department taped to the front. Astarion mentally cataloged the names they passed on the way to the door marked ‘Wardrobe.’ Knowing where everything was would be beneficial to him in the long run. Directly next to ‘Wardrobe’ was ‘Makeup.’ The smell of setting powder around the door was pervasive, the odor sticking to his skin and following him to the next room.

The wardrobe headquarters was a nightmare. There were pieces of clothing strewn across the room, the dry-cleaning bin was overflowing, and the singular sewing desk was covered in spilled rhinestones. The chaos of the room was overwhelming in the best way. Astarion’s shoulders twitched with his eagerness to get to work organizing the room. The space was small, but it was far from the most cramped space he’d worked in.

“You’ve got the job, by the way. I trust Shadowheart’s word on your skill,” Isobel gestured to the room around her and sighed. “I’m sorry to be throwing this mess in your lap, but it’s been a bit of a nightmare since poor Tally left to take care of her mother.”

“I will never forgive this offense, darling,” Astarion quipped, smirking in Isobel’s direction. He looked forward to cleaning up the room and putting some order in place. Immediately upon glancing into the room, Astarion pinpointed several costumes needing his attention immediately. Two dresses had snags in their trains and one corset was splitting at the seams. Those would be his first priorities, whenever he was cleared to start.

“Can you start tomorrow?”

Astarion hummed in affirmation. “Certainly. When’s my call?”

Isobel pulled her phone out of her pocket and flicked through her calendar.

“Eight, but get here at seven for paperwork. The HR office is three doors down and across the hall.”

He shook Isobel’s hand again, following her and Shadowheart back through the maze of hallways to the main set. In the time that they’d been in the wardrobe room, many of the set dressers had finished their jobs and moved on to something different. There were no more spots of spackle and plaster to be covered in a coat of gray paint, no more doors leaning against frames, and several intricate tapestries hung from rods high on the walls.

Astarion was reluctant to leave the studio building. Even being inside the cramped, overflowing space made his heart soar. He bid Shadowheart a quick goodbye, giving her a hug before they got into their separate cars. Tossing his phone on the holder, Astarion scrolled through his Spotify, selecting a song at random. The jovial notes of the familiar song drifted out of his car’s speakers. Despite the earlier panic attack, despite the bead of dread that was still incubating in his chest, Astarion was excited. He was ready to be back on a set, damn the rest to hell. Shadowheart could keep her ear to the ground and warn him if Cazador was coming to set. There weren’t any of the man’s cronies around to report back. His misgivings gnawed at his insides, but he shoved them down. He was ready to live.