Harry Styles, the star of London's Jermyn Street Theatre. The main part as Dorian Grey now his to do with what he knows best; to act, but there's not a single script in the world that can teach you how to be someone else when you can't even stand to...
"The world is a stage and the play is badly cast." ― Oscar Wilde
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154 days until premiere.
[15:06 p.m. Jermyn Street Theatre auditorium]
"Action!" Jeff called out from the middle of the auditorium. His face turned forward, a crease on his forehead. The lights went dim as a spotlight hit the the stage. A frame, leaned on the back of a chair with a photograph pinned in the middle, across it a hand stroked a paintbrush. To the left stood a frozen figure on a pedestal, straight posture, his hair in curly waves and dressed in a black waistcoat over a oversized cotton shirt. A excessive jawn left his lips and the painter rose.
"Bored by me already, Mr Gray?" He left the portrait and helped the young man down without getting a single sign of gratitude.
"Basil, it's not you that bores me, it's only you when you're painting. You're awfully quiet...-", he couldn't finish the line, the words refused to come to him no matter how hard he tried to remember. His mind was a blank. He did his best to stay in character but within a second his whole face turned into a schruns, his fists clenched together tightly. He dared not look towards Jeff, so he kept his eyes steady on the floor.
"Man, are you alright?" the blonde whispered, seeking his colleague's eye, casting a quick but not unnoticed look towards the director who was about to rise from his chair.
"I'm fine, Niall," the brunette growled, "forgetting your lines isn't a sign of cerebral haemorrhage or anything. I'm just tired."
"Jez, sorry for checking in, mate," The blonde rolled his eyes, he knew Harry had been struggling for a while but he couldn't help himself. He took a step back, leaning back into his own posture, leaving Basil Hallwood for now, awaiting further instructions from Jeff who was on his way down the stage.
"Harry, care to tell me what's going on?" The voice obviously sour with irritation. Harry rose his face, his eyes red from fatigue as they met with his bosses alert ones.
"I'm sorry, Jeffrey," Niall hid a snort when Harry pronounced his full name, and got a sneer back from parts of the cast but Harry ignored it, "I didn't get much sleep last night and-"
"Do you know your lines or not, Harry?" Jeff cut him off, Harry didn't even flinch.
He took a deep breath and pushed a curl back in its place, "I thought I did,-"
"I didn't ask you what you thought or not, I asked you, do you know your lines or not? Otherwise we're wasting time rehearsing a scene where half of the cast can't even speak," He raised a brow towards Harry as if to ask him if he agreed, and he got a closed-bitten nod in response, "good!" he clapped his hands together and walked off the stage.
"Zayn?" he called as he walked back up to his seat.
"Aye," a voice whooped from the front row where the rest of the cast were seated.
