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[ For most actors, being front and center stage was the only place they longed for. Top billing, face on all the posters, most lines, best lines and such: that was where most actors dreamed they'd end up, from amateurs to seasoned professionals.

For Cullen, any part was a success. The stern father, the fool, the young lover: he's played all these parts in his life already, so he's no stranger to any of them. He was never sad after callbacks where they asked him to be Alarmed Peasant Number 3. It was a job like any other. Besides, he knows he's not a great dancer, and he's a little older than what most directors would desire in their starring roles.

Most directors, however, are not Varric Tethras. And Varric Tethras often found himself to be a very Hilarious Man. Hilarious enough to cast Cullen in a starring role.

In a play composed entirely in verse. A Genitivi play.

Maker, Cullen hadn't done Genitivi since college, and he hadn't even done it that much IN college because theater isn't what he signed up to go to college for. It's hard enough for him to read Genitivi, much less perform it.

But Varric promised him an amazing, talented cast, ("The best guys I know! Been doing Genitivi since they were babes!") and a perfect venue and not horrible theater hours.

However nice that all sounded, a starring role was still a starring role, and Cullen was apprehensive from the moment Varric told him he got the part (there was no bleeding audition), continuing right into the part where he walks into the rehearsal space for the cold reading.

Maker preserve him, he was in trouble. A lot of people gathered around a table with drinks on it, most young, some his age, a few people he recognized (Cassandra he's done a couple shows with in the past, and Josephine is one of Varric's other friends) but most he didn't.

Smiling his usual small, lopsided, Please don't ask me anything smile, he moves to pick up a script and take a seat. Pulling out his phone to turn off the sound, he rereads a text message from Bree, wishing him luck, followed by at least seven emojis. Andraste, that little girl loves emojis.

The play is one he's heard of before, but never read. A dramedy, they called them: funny and serious at the same time. It's apparently a more controversial one, not often performed (and how on brand for Varric that is to pick this one), but Cullen can't remember why until he looks at the parts.

EDMUND: KNIGHT-ERRANT, HANDSOME AND VIRTUOUS ANTONIO: EDMUND'S LOVER, FULL OF WIT AND CHARM

Oh Maker. ]

[ It's probably one am by the time he checks the clock by his desk again, squinting at the bright red letters and wondering where the evening went. He already knows the answer to that question though, frowning at the two textbooks he's got spread open and the ratty notebook between them. He hopes the scribbled notes will be legible enough in the morning that he can continue to study macromolecules and whatever else the unit is on. Maybe he should have finished this earlier, left the still life drawing stuff for now; Maker knows he can be half asleep and still draw the vase of wilting flowers on his tiny kitchen table. They're a little more forgiving than formulas and proteins.

Pulling up the messages on his phone to reread tomorrow's group project schedule so helpfully texted to him by Josephine, Cullen almost misses the sound of heavy footfalls outside his room, along with a thrumming, prolonged sound that reminds him of something being dragged. Closing his phone, he stills, listens. The footsteps soon fade, as does his interest in the goings-on outside his apartment. There are other students here, other people his age that would no doubt finding any time they can to party.

He puts his pen back to the paper only to jump when something very heavy is dropped on the floor nearby, muffled voices following suit. Cullen stands this time; normally when the neighbors are partying, they're laughing and shouting from down the hallway, not right outside his door. A couple more minutes go by as he debates inspecting, and more heavy, struggling sounds are heard, then another crash, then a door slamming shut.

If nothing else, whoever is out there should be quiet enough to let their neighbors sleep; he should go say something, make sure everything's okay, then tell them to save the wrestling for the daytime.

Peering out of the door, he sees bags and boxes littering the hallway, wrapped up like someone is unmistakably moving in. But at this hour? He's not even sure the office is open right now. He sticks his head far enough out to look down towards the stairs but the footsteps are getting louder, and he's not sure he feels up to introducing himself to a neighbor while sleepwalking. There's always tomorrow, he tells himself, shutting his door as his eyes begin to shut on him.

More molecules tomorrow. They're not going anywhere soon. ]

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