Chapter Text
“Here are the nominees for Best Direction of a Musical.”
Ed’s not nervous. He’s definitely not nervous. Cool hot shot directors don’t get nervous. The lights are just too fucking bright, that’s all, they should dim them a little, add some ambiance, consider the fact that everyone in this room is going to be sweating bullets. He shrugs out of the leather jacket he regrets choosing over a suit coat. Why did no one tell him it was going to be a million degrees in here? No one told him, because no one expected him to get this far, no one…
“Edward Teach, Blackbeard’s Revenge. ”
He nearly jumps out of his skin when he realizes a camera right beside him, like it’s peering into the depths of his soul. He manages to smile politely, clap humbly, eyes fixed on the stage, before it swings away to someone else. Jesus fucking Christ, it never seemed to take this long when he watched on TV…
“And the American Theatre Wing’s Tony Award goes to…”
It’s an honor just to be nominated, that’s what everyone always says. And it’s true, it is an honor. He isn’t the kind of person that should be sitting in Radio City Music Hall among the legends of theater. Ten years ago no one could have predicted a musical like Blackbeard’s Revenge even opening uptown, let alone being an award season darling. The fact that he’s here at all is an honor. He needs to be happy with that, he thinks as the envelope opens. It’s an honor…
“Edward Teach! Blackbeard’s Revenge!”
Ed goes cold, then hot, then cold again. Somehow he’s on his feet, nearly running up the steps of the stage and nearly colliding with a camera person twice on the way. Somewhere far away, he dimly hears the announcer’s voice. This marks the first nomination and first win for Edward Teach. He’s shaking someone’s hand, the little statue is suddenly in his grasp. And it’s lighter than he’d imagined it, he thinks, like it’s hollow inside or something...
The music fades out, and Ed turns to the microphone. When he’d done this in the bathroom mirror, only his own face ever smiled back. Now thousands of cheering faces looking back at him, some smiling, most judging. The whole community in one place, watching him. Waiting for him to inspire them. Can everyone hear his heart rattling? Say something brilliant. Say something charming. Say something great.
“Nice. Very good. Love that.”
You absolute idiot.
For some reason, the crowd loves it. Maybe it’s the genuine shock on his face. Maybe he’s just charming. Maybe it’s just part of his brand, the aloof young director who’s breathed such life into a stuffy theater scene. A choked laugh escapes his tightening throat, the disbelief finally giving way to giddiness. Running a hand through his hair, Ed starts down his mental list. He hadn’t thought to write it down, hadn’t let himself dream this could ever be real.
“Thank you to the greatest cast anyone could ask for. Jack Rackham, Anne Bonney, all of you, you inspire me to make good things. Thank you to my stage manager, Israel Hands, the real captain of this ship, don’t know where things would be without you, mate. Mary and Sam, for your incredible script. Thank you to our producers, all our designers…”
And then he falters. It’s maybe three seconds, but that’s an eternity in theatre time. The glee in his chest is suddenly replaced by a gaping emptiness. He’s watched enough acceptance speeches to know what comes next. This is where you thank your parents, for always believing in you and driving you to rehearsals. Where you thank that one elementary school music teacher, that one acting professor, for pushing you to keep going. Where you thank your partner for being your rock, your inspiration, and your kids who are staying up past their bedtime to watch you win. This is where you blow a kiss to that person in the audience, whose eyes should be brimming with tears of pride.
Ed can’t do that. There’s no one here but him.
Time starts again, rushing around him as he gasps around a sob. He covers it well, he thinks. His acting degree was good for something. They’ll chalk it up to overwhelming emotion, he hopes. So instead, he raises the award above his head and yells “We fucking did it!”
The broadcast will bleep out his profanity, he knows, but the crowd screams away. The applause drowns out every thought in his head, and the orchestra plays him out. The moment he’s safely in the wings, a flurry of production assistants appear and guide Ed down into the basement of Radio City to the make-shift press room.
When he finally looks down at the little silver statue he’s been clutching so hard his knuckles hurt, Ed’s surprised it doesn’t have his name on it already. He asks someone - he has no idea who - why, and they politely inform him this is merely a prop for the award ceremony. The real one would be mailed to him in a few months, he’d get an email with an address form in a few days…fuck of course he didn’t know how these things work… fake…
But he can’t dwell for too long, because suddenly he’s standing before a wall of photographers and reporters. Ed says all the right things. He kisses his prop award and makes everyone laugh with his sincerity. He doesn’t squeeze his eyes shut against the flash of the cameras. Someone says #wefuckingdidit is the top trending hashtag of the award show. “Nice. Very good. Love that” captions hundreds of memes within hours.
Time seems to skip forward again, and Ed finds himself on the roof of a bar, surrounded by his cast and crew. Jack had secured Best Actor, Anne had nabbed Best Actress, and the whole team had won Best Musical. Four glittering fake awards that would eventually become real. Will they ever feel real? Ed wonders. They dance and sing the night away, no one keeping track of how many drinks they’d tossed back or cigarettes they’d burned through. I’m here, Ed keeps reminding himself. I’m here. I won. I’m here. This is happening.
By four a.m., the crowd starts to disperse. Partners grab each other’s hands. Friends sling arms over each other’s shoulders. Some people finally have the sense to call their families, leave half-conscious voicemails. Ed leans heavily against the bar, a wave of weariness hitting all at once. It’s supposed to be the best night of his life. It’s supposed to mean he’s finally made it.
When the chilly summer breeze hits his skin, Ed suddenly remembers that he’s left his jacket on his chair at Radio City. And his chest caves in again when he realizes there’s no one to bring it to him later.