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Hairspray (one-shot, M)


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This is just a lil something I came up with in my spare time. Hope you like, sorry for mistakes!




 “Singers onstage for mic check. Let’s go, people!”


 The passageway between the school drama room and the back hall was always a tight squeeze during play week - even tighter by the time people crowd around the makeup room get their asses ready. The counter, cluttered with cases of cake makeup and sponge wedges was usually a total chaos, as was the lack of mirror space. Those days a guy would kill for a white eyeliner and a steady hand - or a doll standing around willing to do it for them. As for Andy, he took pride in saying that he hadn’t done his own stage makeup in all his years performing.


 “Come on, Jackson needs us to run scene changes.” Ross said, hastily fixing his hair in the mirror.


 “I’ll be out in a few,” Andy replied, nonchalantly.


 ‘I look like a ghost’, Ross thought to himself, smoothing down his black hair. He straightened his tie, and adjusts his nicely-fitted brown suit jacket. His nose itched annoyingly, but he wouldn’t dare fuss about it after he’d just gotten done up. He’d definitely taken Claritin this morning - hadn’t he? He sighed inwardly, knowing was no point in telling the difference of whether he took it or not - the early symptoms were nothing new to him. Anyways, there was no way he could let it get in way this week. He cleared his throat and headed through the hall and up the stairs to stage left.


 “Hey man. You good?” Steve came up to greet him, already made up and ready in costume. Under his short dark curls, a mic was hooked over one ear.


 “Yeah.” Ross turned suddenly and coughed, as the wave of a strong scent of something fruity and alluring filled his senses. “Whoa.” He croaked, behind the back of one hand. “Hairspray.” Steve fanned the air faintly with his hand.


 “Sorry,” a girl from the ensemble rushes past him, and through the backstage doors.


 He nodded understandingly and pushed a knuckle against his septum, sniffing sharply. “Ah. *snf* What scenes are we doing?” He questioned, turning back to Steve. A faint burning sensation was tingling in his nostrils, but nothing bad enough to really bother him.


 “Uh for now,” Steve’s hands were on his hips, glancing into the wings. “We have the cityscape, for act one scene three, and next is the the train station-“


 “Ross, what’re you doing?! You’re supposed to be mic-ed!!” Mr. Jackson shouts as he passes by, his keys jangling at his side. Ross steps back and straightens his shoulders.


 “Yes sir,” Ross says and speed-walks further stage left, where he quickly removes his suit jacket to attach the mic pack to his waist. He turns away to cough into his arm, his throat suddenly a bit scratchy. “‘Scuse me. So sorry.” He muttered to the tech girl, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he moved to secure the small mic himself.


 “Ross, are you okay?” Jillian, the female lead, approaches him kindly as he replaces his jacket. Her jet-black curls are almost sparkling in the bright light of the balcony, her lips a fabulous cherry red.


 “Yeah.” He cleared his throat again, and grins. “Fine.”


 He walked downstage to join her, as the other members of the cast and ensemble were testing their microphones. 


 “One, two, three-“ “You’re good.” “Number eighteen. One, two, three, four, five-“ “You’re good. Thank you.”


 Ross began to feel hot in his costume, the bright lights shining down on the row of people upstage. He then decided to look up, directly facing the blinding light - triggering a reflex in his sinuses. “Hih,” he swiftly raised his wrist, gasping shortly. Nothing. However, the itch had grown harder to ignore, which - amazing timing, yes - was a bit frustrating.


 “Ross. What mic number?” The choir teacher addresses him.


 “Ten.” He says clearly. ‘Project’, he reminds himself. “One, two, thr-heee...” his breath hitches quietly, but he just casually brushes a knuckle under his nose and continues steadily. “Four, five-“


 “Thank you. You’re good.”


 Relieved, he stepped back from the line. A few seconds later, he cupped the mic with his left hand and pinched his nose tight with the other. “Hh’MMmptt!-uhh...” He stifled, the force enough to send his tall frame forward. He quickly tried to gain composure, slowly migrating backstage. A few “Bless-yous” echoed from the members onstage, and he chuckled breathlessly, embarrassed. 


 He quickly headed back down to the makeup room, where he immediately stripped off the mic from his cheek and cupped his hands to his face.


 “Hah’NTCHh! -HurrRSCHHh!!” He sniffled wetly, his nose now completely stuffy. “Ugh,” he sighed, moving to one corner of the mirror to check his eye makeup. His hair was now dishevelled. What a mess.


 “Jesus, Ross.” Andy watches him, not having moved from earlier.


 “Cad you help be...” Ross reaches desperately for the mic pack on his waist, cringing at the thought of his voice being picked up. “Bute this...”


 “Here.” Andy knelt down on one knee and pressed a button. “There, it’s muted.” All the while, Ross was feeling in his pockets for a handkerchief.


 Ross, feeling the rushing need to express his gratitude, gasped in a generous amount of air and pivoted away from Andy. His head tilted back, and his chin came down with a thunderous- “ESSCHHIEWW!! Oh by god...”


 “Yikes. What happened?” Andy questioned, sitting on the counter with his feet dangling. Ross blew his nose heartily, and emerged with watery eyes.


 “I don’t know... *snf!* I think I’m allergic to hairspray... *snff* huh’ESCHhiu!”


 “But you’re usually fine.”


 “I know!” He sniffled harshly. “Fuck...” he leans forward toward the mirror and wipes carefully below his eye at the smudged eyeliner. “*snnrff* I don’t know- I think just today, I might’ve forgotten to take meds this bordig,” He smooths down his hair. He grabs the dangling mic and slips it back over his ear, taping it in place. Unfortunately, the tape wasn’t as useful anymore.


 “Ah, bad luck. You can tell Jackson. Or, wait-“ Ross looked at him over his shoulder, putting his coat back on over the cord. Personally, he wasn’t all for getting yelled at by the director two times this morning just because he couldn’t control his goddamn allergies. Andy shrugs. “Just go. He’ll understand.”


 Ross laughed softly and swiped at his nose, now red after the rubbing removed most of the makeup. Not too noticeable? Or who cared - he was a mess anyway. At least the foundation shade matched the rest of his skin just fine. He didn’t bother redoing the eyeliner.


 He paced back and forth in the makeup room, mumbling lines, just trying to make sure he could breathe before going anywhere else. However the room still reeked of hairspray, which was causing his nose to run. Just then, they heard a stern voice approach in the doorway.


 “Andy? Ross?” Ross’ back tightened in fear, as he swivelled toward the sound of Mr. Jackson’s voice. The minute the director caught a glance of him, he looked taken aback. “What happened to you?”


 “Allergies, sir.” Andy said calmly. Ross swallowed, barely making a sound.


 “I see. Ross, go into my office, I’ll meet you there in a minute. Andrew, stage. Now.” He ordered. 


 Andrew hesitantly rose from the counter and sauntered out into the hall, giving Ross a last glance. Ross walked out of the makeup room and into the drama room, holding onto his mic, which had come off from his ear. He sighed with tiredness and shame - this was his last show in high school, and they’d barely made it - what? Two shows into play week? What a disgrace.


 After waiting for a few minutes in the small corner office, the director returned with a small blister pack of Claritin in one hand. A faint, knowing grin was on his face. 


 “The show must go on,” said Mr. Jackson.




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