Bad theatre fanfiction.

Straight Theatre adjusts his tie and checks out his collar. He fusses over how his glasses sit, and looks down to ensure he can see his reflection in his leather shoes.

All of a sudden, his neck snaps up...he hears the sound of footsteps he knows too well. Two metal panels on split-soled shoes.
This cannot be good.

"Ohhhhhh, so this is where his dressing room is!"
Straight Theatre has only this as warning before the door bursts open. He winces as he takes in the sight of his brother's form...Gay Theatre.
Dressed in red sequins and feathers, Gay Theatre sashays in, casually flipping the end of a feather boa over his shoulder.
"HEYYYYYYYYY GURLLLLLL," Gay Theatre leans in and curls his hand over the side of his mouth, despite standing merely two metres away from Straight Theatre, obviously bothered by the intrusion.
"Why the sad face? You should really smile more, you know. Oh. My. God, I know -exactly- what would cheer you up."

The lights come on, as twenty backup dancers materialise out of nowhere at all. Together, they engage in a short but lively dance routine.

Straight Theatre's right hand meets his forehead for what is certainly not the hundredth time by now.
He squints at his brother. At least, it is his brother for now. Sometimes it is his sister.
Sometimes it is neither. He has ceased to question this, and instead mutters an inaudible prayer thanking the Lord for their lost cousin, Avant Garde.

"Will you stop being so gay," Straight Theatre used to ask Gay Theatre.
"Well excuuuuuuse me, princess," Gay Theatre would playfully slap Straight Theatre on the back, complete with a broken wristed flick and a giggle, "It's Musical Theatre for you. Get it? Musical? Because I'm faaaaaabulous?"

Straight Theatre doesn't call Gay Theatre "Gay Theatre" to his face. It comes across to him as quite mean. And while Straight Theatre is uppity sometimes, he doesn't want to be mean all the time. Sometimes, certainly, because the effect is important, but not all the time. The effect is--

He barely has time to continue his train of thought when suddenly, clad in black, a figure tears through the door, a look of abject horror on his face.

"No! NO! IT IS TOO LATE. SAVE ME, SAVE MEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

The figure falls to the ground, clutching at his neck, still pleading for mercy.

Straight Theatre looks at the man. Black tights, but no gloves, and no whiteface. So it's not his uncle Mime.

He glances once more at the writhing fool. "Ah, of course."

Avant Garde has returned.

Straight Theatre looks at the door, now broken into a million pieces. If privacy was an issue before, it clearly wasn't any longer.
He does his best to avert his eyes from the random but extremely well-endowed females changing openly in the communal dressing room. Gay Theatre assures him they no longer care, but for his own sanity he refuses to look their way nonetheless.

This unfortunately shifts his line of sight back to Avant Garde, who has ceased to thrash about like a recently captured fish. Now he merely lies, his face frozen in a picture of despair, hands still placed firmly around his neck.

He tries to keep his cool. "What is it this time, Avant Garde?"

Avant Garde sits up slowly, breaking eye contact with Straight Theatre. Looking into the undefined distance, he gingerly takes one hand off his neck, and points into the distance. And after an interminable silence, he reaches a conclusion.

"The world," he stage-whispers, his other hand sliding towards his chest. 

Oh great, Straight Theatre sighs. The world. When hasn't it been the world? This could go on for hours.

"What is it about the world," Straight Theatre replies. It isn't so much a question as it is an expressed desire for Avant Garde to move on, but Avant Garde continues nonetheless.
"The world...it is dark and cruel. People full of hate and fear perpetuating hate and fear and pain and darkness. The world...is a prison."

Straight Theatre thinks. He knows the answer to this. He remembers there being an answer to this...no. That's not the answer at all. Avant Garde just used the answer.

Defeated, but hoping that Avant Garde wouldn't notice the difference, Straight Theatre responds with the first half of that statement.

"Then is Denmark one."

Avant Garde's eyes light up.
He understands.

"What's he saying? It sounds really depressing. I don't get iiiiiiiiiit," drawls Gay Theatre. Sorry, Musical Theatre. The sooner he gets into the habit of saying it, the sooner it'll stay, Straight Theatre muses.

"Just because you don't understand it doesn't make it depressing, Musical Theatre. Do you even know what depressing sounds like?"

Musical Theatre knows. He doesn't get much opportunity to experience it, but when he does, how it burns.
He remembers the cold Parisian nights. Of students with stupid idealism, and barricades and sewers and dirty men looting from their murdered sons. He remembers the moments in Vietnam, of a bargirl who could never go to America. He can still taste the meat pie, can still feel the cold blade gaily glide across his throat, in a dark dingy barbershop on the second floor, and the final backward tip of the plush chair.

He shivers. He shivers and tries to think of cats in hats, baboons raising baby lions into the air, and dancing nuns with children in tow. He holds back tears, only these are not the tears he sheds for the beauty of his craft, but those he reserves for the truly pitiful. He knows these are tears of weakness. No, no, he knows he must block the thoughts out. Gay Republican investment banker puppets. Gary Coleman. Young male ballet dancers in small mining towns.

He finally puts himself together enough to look Straight Theatre in the eye. "Don't. Ever. Ask that question. Again."