Duologue - Memeulous x ImAllexx (unfinished - go to the rewrite)

6

"I never imagined losing my mind was going to be such hard work."
― Tony Kushner, Angels in America

🂶

Alex was sat on one of the chairs used in the play's set when George walked in a few moments late for their quick rehearsal.

George briefly admired his own handiwork, the chair had started off an ugly, almost plasticky white, but he'd carefully painted it over the course of a few rehearsals to look like a regular 1950's wooden chair. He'd even gone through the effort of painting little lines to mimic texture. And though he wasn't quite finished on that specific chair yet, it still looked real from his distant position by the front door to the rehearsal room.

Alex didn't seem to be appreciating it all that much. His legs dangled loosely over the edge, dirty trainers banging in a bored pattern on the brand new paint work of the chair's legs. They seemed to be jogging in time to the music he was listening to; his headphones stayed secure as he nodded, eyes closed, to the beat.

George would have run over in panic if that was the sort of thing he did. As it was, he fruitlessly called out to Alex to stop, and walked towards his precious furniture in a state of hidden fear.

He wasn't sure if he could forgive Alex if he had messed up the work of the last three rehearsals, so he just kept it out of his mind as he reached the boy.

"Hey George, what's up?" Alex noticed him, heels still tapping the sides of the chair, it was all George could do to keep his composure as he noticed the mud on them, straight from the football field.

"Alex, don't move a muscle." He ordered, and the boy complied confusedly. George knelt down slowly onto one knee. He ignored the other boy's quizzical face while he gently took hold of Alex's legs, and spread them carefully, not letting his shoes touch the painted wood at all.

George leaned in close to his masterpiece, not letting go of Alex's calfs, he examined the paint for any flaw, any chip of mud, any scratch.

Alex, speechless, just stared down at George in between his legs, staring closely at a fucking chair leg.

For some reason, George was finding it hard to see if there were scratches, he squinted closely and drew his head back, trying different angles to see if there we Once he was happy enough, George finally raised his gaze to match Alex's.

"You could have done some damage." Was all he said. He still hadn't let go of Alex's legs.

Alex coughed, eyes wide, hinting something to George, who looked down and suddenly realised that his face was somewhat, no, almost exactly level with Alex's crotch.

"Uhm." Was all his brain could get out before he regained control of his muscles and dropped Alex's legs unceremoniously. He painfully forced his eyes to look anywhere but forwards.

"Ow." Alex complained as his ankle whacked the chair's corner. "What the fuck was that?"

George shrugged, instantly moving back to his default setting as he slowly stood up and stepped away. "Don't fuck up my set with your grimy nikes and we won't have a problem." He forcefully injected his humour into the conversation and pretended as if nothing had ever happened.

As George was searching for a script, Alex patted some imaginary dust away and resolved to ignore it himself. With both boys set on never mentioning it again, they began the rehearsal as usual. "Let's go from page 30."

"Sure," George nodded, then "something's wrong." He squinted at the crumpled pages.

"What?"

"Ah, shit." George realised the problem, and inwardly cursed his own dimwittedness.