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“Brutus, my lord!” You call, stumbling into view.
Megumi, who’s attention snaps to you, looks confused, furrowed brows with his lips barely apart. “Portia! Why are you awake?” The countenance he holds is no longer confusion but mounds of worry. He ushers toward you and his hands find your shoulders to lead you away but your legs do not move to comply.
“You shouldn’t be up! At least, not so early, especially in your condition.” He reasons.
“Neither should you! Last night you awoke and paced around our room like a mad-man. Yet, when I ask what is the matter you look at me with disdain.” You exclaim. “Even so, I continued to question you but you impatiently stamped your foot and refused to answer me clearly! You’d even requested I leave you and though I may have respected your wishes, my heart aches with unease. Confide in me, Brutus! What troubles you?”
Each of your lines are delivered in heaps of breath, desperation enveloping the tone. The garments you wore flow and drift dramatically to match and the laced frills at the end of your wafer-thin gown wisp over the strained wood floors of the theater stage. Your thoughts, however, are set and steady. You know and could never forget, even in a moment as dire as this, the next set of words you’ve studied.
His hands fall from your shoulders and are tucked into his crossed arms, “I’m not well in health. That is all.”
“The Brutus I know is wise. If he were sick he would go by the means necessary to overcome the virus.” It feels strange having to adjust how you address Megumi on stage. Where the spotlight shines on you, he’s Lord Brutus, a husband with questionable morals.
“Why so I do. Go to bed, my dear.” On stage, his deep black hair is no longer spiked but carefully raked into place. As he moves, strands become loose and slump over his forehead. You now notice, with the glaring white lights pointed to yourself, Megumi, and the other props accompanying you on center stage, how well-pampered his hair is. Perhaps the makeup artists backstage made a few spontaneous decisions opening night. It fits him. Not that many things didn’t.
“No, my Brutus. You have some sickness within your mind. Which, by the right of my place within your life I ought to know of; and upon my knees I charm you by my once commended beauty,” You take his hand and kneel before him, “Of all your vows of love, a great vow which did wed us–that you open up to me, your self, your half. Why are you heavy?”
His face shifts once more, now to one of sympathy. There is no pity written across his features nor is there anger in his eyes. Instead, he feels guilty for letting you fall to the floor for the sake of some conspiracy, “Please, do not kneel, dear Portia.” His hands come to cup your face.
“I would not need to if you were kind, Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, should I know no secrets that appertain to you? Am I some pet you keep with you at meals, comfort in your bed, and talk to you sometimes? If I am no more to you, I’m your harlot, not wife.” Tears pool at your waterline and spill over down your cheek. Megumi’s thumb swipes the tears away away as quickly as they fall. He kneels to meet your eyes but doesn’t dare to remove his hands from your cheeks.
“You are my true and honorable wife, as dear to me as are the ruby liquids that visit my sad heart.”
“If this were true, then should I know this secret!” Your own hands now find his face and you passionately hold his jaw, “Tell me your worries, I will not disclose them. I have made strong proof of my reliability, giving myself a voluntary wound here, in the thigh. How can I bear that with patience, and not my husband's secrets?” The only noises that come while you both speak are the echoes of your own voices. Despite many people gathered in the abyss of the audience, not one person dared even to breath loudly during your time with Megumi.
“O ye gods, let me be worthy of this noble wife!” A knock sounds and Megumi’s breath hitches, “Someone knocks. Portia, leave for a moment. The secrets of my heart. All my worries I will admit to thee, all the cause of my sad brows. Leave me with haste.”
You give a final look into the depth of his iris before gathering yourself and scattering behind the curtain, out of view from the eyes of spectators. The crew awaiting you quietly compliment you, “I’ll never get tired of watching you and Megumi act together. The both of you are outstanding!”
“Right? They’re amazing. You guys make the relationship between your characters look real. I swear I saw some people in their seats wiping their eyes.”
“Thanks. It means a lot.” You turn to watch Megumi finish out the scene. He’s now accompanied by a few other actors and they talk and interact as practiced. Even with so much else going on, quick changes, costume and makeup retouches, and actors going over everything they’ve studied a final time behind stage, it doesn’t bring your attention off of your fictional husband and how well he sells his character. He’s made it his own, stamped the character in everyone’s minds that it’d feel sinful to have another man play conspirator Brutus.
Maybe it was your ego growing two sizes too big but you were skeptical all the emotion he put out during your time together had been a mere fallacy. His eyes held boundless emotion and when he held your face while you held his, those cobalt colored iris’ held a spark of sincerity you’d never seen.