Moth to Flame
folder
+A through F › Bioshock
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,473
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+A through F › Bioshock
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,473
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the game that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
God Bless the Child
(Author's notes: Yes. This is Bioshock slash. No, I will not respond to flames. Yes, if you review it honestly, I might love you forever.)
November, 1945: God Bless the Child
Applauding even his own productions in the same old bleak, dreary theatre had long since lost its flavor for Sander. Instead of focusing on the curtain call, his eyes were drawn over and over again to the missing bulb in the line of floorlights, the messily patched tear in one fold of the curtain, the splotch of paint on the box’s balustrade that didn’t quite match. His lips pinched slightly as he noted them for what must have been the fourth or fifth time in the performance. Carousel was a smash on Broadway, and he had to make another premiere here? What did they have that he didn’t?
Insipid songwriting and stale prose, that’s what they had. Just what everyone wanted nowadays. No one wanted to look outside, to turn on their television, much less see a play of any substance. On some level, he wasn’t quite surprised. And on another he was more disgusted with them than ever.
Rising as the applause began to fade, he plucked his overcoat from the box’s rack. God, what he wouldn’t give for a real theatre with a coat check. He had already slept his way into more pockets than he could count just to get to this one. It wasn’t that he didn’t have enough talent to eventually book his shows into theatres. He simply didn’t have the patience. Waiting until he was forty to finally enjoy some success was not an option. Even waiting until thirty had seemed criminal. In public, he didn’t even admit to being thirty.
The thought of enduring the post-show green room nearly made his stomach turn. The questions, the petty chat. Even the praise felt sour. These people didn’t understand his work. These were the upper class couples who ‘went to the theatre’ because it made them sound like they possessed even an ounce of culture, whose wallets allowed them Broadway and whose tight fists would land them just outside of it. And as usual, he would see their faces and smile and leap through the necessary “Ah, this must be your lovely wife” hoops and long for one, God, just one fucking peer in the whole lot of them.
“Mr. Cohen?”
The low voice stopped him in his tracks and he prayed briefly that it wasn’t some investor he’d already slept with and forgotten looking to catch him before the rest. Just a tad hesitantly, he cast a noncommittal glance back over his shoulder.
“Yes?”
But he had never seen this man before. Tall, imposing, a strong, square jaw and perfectly pomaded brown hair. His tie, shoes, even his watch matched his wool suit. Sander turned fully.
“This piece tonight was yours?” The man’s voice bore just the slightest trace of a faded Soviet accent.
“I wrote it, yes.” Sander replied, standing just slightly taller under the other’s steady gaze. Suddenly he was painfully aware that one of his pantlegs had the smallest of mended tears, and hoped beyond hope that the stranger couldn’t tell.
“My name is Andrew Ryan. I’ve something of a project I’d like to discuss with you.”
November, 1945: God Bless the Child
Applauding even his own productions in the same old bleak, dreary theatre had long since lost its flavor for Sander. Instead of focusing on the curtain call, his eyes were drawn over and over again to the missing bulb in the line of floorlights, the messily patched tear in one fold of the curtain, the splotch of paint on the box’s balustrade that didn’t quite match. His lips pinched slightly as he noted them for what must have been the fourth or fifth time in the performance. Carousel was a smash on Broadway, and he had to make another premiere here? What did they have that he didn’t?
Insipid songwriting and stale prose, that’s what they had. Just what everyone wanted nowadays. No one wanted to look outside, to turn on their television, much less see a play of any substance. On some level, he wasn’t quite surprised. And on another he was more disgusted with them than ever.
Rising as the applause began to fade, he plucked his overcoat from the box’s rack. God, what he wouldn’t give for a real theatre with a coat check. He had already slept his way into more pockets than he could count just to get to this one. It wasn’t that he didn’t have enough talent to eventually book his shows into theatres. He simply didn’t have the patience. Waiting until he was forty to finally enjoy some success was not an option. Even waiting until thirty had seemed criminal. In public, he didn’t even admit to being thirty.
The thought of enduring the post-show green room nearly made his stomach turn. The questions, the petty chat. Even the praise felt sour. These people didn’t understand his work. These were the upper class couples who ‘went to the theatre’ because it made them sound like they possessed even an ounce of culture, whose wallets allowed them Broadway and whose tight fists would land them just outside of it. And as usual, he would see their faces and smile and leap through the necessary “Ah, this must be your lovely wife” hoops and long for one, God, just one fucking peer in the whole lot of them.
“Mr. Cohen?”
The low voice stopped him in his tracks and he prayed briefly that it wasn’t some investor he’d already slept with and forgotten looking to catch him before the rest. Just a tad hesitantly, he cast a noncommittal glance back over his shoulder.
“Yes?”
But he had never seen this man before. Tall, imposing, a strong, square jaw and perfectly pomaded brown hair. His tie, shoes, even his watch matched his wool suit. Sander turned fully.
“This piece tonight was yours?” The man’s voice bore just the slightest trace of a faded Soviet accent.
“I wrote it, yes.” Sander replied, standing just slightly taller under the other’s steady gaze. Suddenly he was painfully aware that one of his pantlegs had the smallest of mended tears, and hoped beyond hope that the stranger couldn’t tell.
“My name is Andrew Ryan. I’ve something of a project I’d like to discuss with you.”