The Greatest Showman #1399 – Force Ruo 0 Jun

Renly's shoulder muscles tensed, a slight, uncontrollable movement.

The entire Radio City Music Hall was alive with attention, every part of the space reflecting his presence. Renly was like a radiant sun, captivating everyone's gaze. Each movement he made became a focal point for discussions—his frown, his smile—sparked countless speculations.

Here, Renly exchanged greetings with Stark-Sanders; there, whispers circulated about whether Renly was intentionally excluding the other three nominees, or whether they were uniting to overshadow him with their veteran Broadway experience.

Here, Renly nodded to Charlotte Martin, the current president of the Broadway League; there, murmurs arose about whether this moment signified that Renly was the likely recipient of tonight's Best Actor in a Musical award.

Here, Renly paused to chat with 1y1e-Kess1er, the screenwriter for this year's Best Drama nominee The Orphans; there, rumors of Renly's potential return to the theater stage began to swirl.

No one could escape this feverish atmosphere.

Every stop, every conversation, every gesture—every glance—seemed laden with meaning. From every angle, people scrutinized and interpreted, hoping to predict the outcome of the evening based on these fleeting moments.

This sensation was unlike any other.

It was as if walking through a jungle, constantly sensing eyes on him from every direction, yet whenever he turned, there was nothing. It was like dancing in the wild, every hair on his body standing on end, every nerve stretched taut.

In this environment, Renly had become highly sensitive to his surroundings. Even the slightest disturbance triggered an internal alarm. The pressure of invisible eyes watching him seemed to steadily increase, forcing his body to respond. His shoulder muscles instinctively tightened.

After all, Renly was just an ordinary person.

Before attending the Tony Awards, he had mentally prepared himself, disregarding the nervous energy of Nathan, who was jittery like an ant on a hot stove; Roy and Andy, who feigned calmness but were secretly anxious; and Edith, whose oddities only added to the uncertainty. Renly had embraced the night's unpredictability, allowing himself to be calm and composed on the red carpet.

But now, it felt as if every gaze, every smile, every move was signaling that tonight was not just any ordinary night—it was a night carrying the weight of history. This feeling pressed against his chest, inescapable, impossible to ignore. It felt as though invisible chains were binding him, forcing him to remain in place.

Make history?

People rarely understand the true weight of creating history. While it may seem glamorous from the outside, the difficulties and dangers are far beyond imagination. Without expectation, one can face anything with ease; but once expectation is raised—even slightly—the disappointment from failure can be overwhelming and unbearable.

Renly straightened his back, unconsciously.

Stronger, calmer, more composed. After all, if he had already faced the aristocracy of London's high society, what was there to fear about New York's Vanity Fair? With the wisdom gained from his first life, Renly had glimpsed the varied faces of the world. Perhaps, when his life eventually came to a close, this moment would become a curious fragment of memory.

And then, Renly saw Tom Hanks.

As one of North America's most influential actors, Tom's appeal and influence surpassed even Renly's and Robert Downey Jr.'s. This year, Tom had returned to the Broadway stage in an old friend's play, Lucky Man. Written by Nora Ephron, a renowned Hollywood screenwriter known for Sleepless in Seattle, the play was special to Tom, as he had completed it in honor of Nora, who passed away last year before she could witness its debut.

Tom's performance had garnered a nomination for Best Actor in a Play, thanks to his outstanding portrayal.

There was also a personal connection between Tom and Renly.

The previous year, Renly had performed on Broadway, drawing a crowd of fans after each show. According to the New York Post, his fan following had set a new record—an average of 280 people waiting outside after each performance, a feat that had never been achieved before in Broadway's long history. This brought renewed attention to Broadway at a time when it was struggling.

Earlier this year, Tom had set a new record with his own performance in Lucky Man. His fans rallied to create a waiting line that averaged 300 people each night—surpassing Renly's record. This sparked playful media comparisons, jokingly asking whether Tom's success represented progress or regression when compared to Renly's achievement.

Tom was the same as ever—warm, fatherly, honest, and kind. He greeted Renly with a hug, and after pulling away, winked. "I know you don't like hugs," he teased.

The subtext was clear—his hug had been deliberate.

"So, what do you think, how are people interpreting this now?" Tom asked with a mischievous glint, his expression perfectly in sync with his playful tone.

Renly, with a subtle smirk, replied, "Let me guess: 'Renly and Tom's relationship is completely over, and now they're pretending to be close, exaggerating their hug to hide their incompatibility?'"

Tom blinked, a bit surprised, then saw the amusement in Renly's eyes and sighed. "You know that's not what I meant."

Renly's response was just as vague. "You know that's not what I meant at all."

Tom's joke had been about whether their public hug might shift perceptions about the likely outcome of the awards. Renly's retort suggested he had no interest in such speculations.

Tom laughed, a bit puzzled. "Really? You really have no idea?"

At this moment, even Tom, who had little interest in awards like the EGOT or the Tony, was curious. Renly's sudden emergence as a contender had piqued everyone's attention.

Renly shook his head with a smile. "Tom, I thought we were friends. Friends don't ask questions like that."

"I thought so too," Tom replied with a chuckle. "But because we're friends, I can ask without hesitation."

Renly's smile deepened. "I have plenty of thoughts, but I'm trying not to think about any of them right now. Honestly, what I'm really thinking is—if this really happens tonight, will I become the public enemy of Hollywood?"

At just twenty-three, achieving EGOT status in three years? It seemed almost too incredible.

"Not just Hollywood's enemy," Renly continued, "I think I'll become the target of envy and resentment everywhere—on news outlets, on social media. People may actually hate me."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "I can relate. After winning back-to-back Best Actor Oscars, I faced the same backlash. People might respect you, but they'll never let you forget it."

Renly raised an eyebrow, teasing. "I thought you didn't care."

Tom shrugged. "I don't, but you know, curiosity is hard to resist."

Renly leaned back with a playful look. "You know I'm not human, right?"

Tom laughed. "Finally, confirmation!" Both of them grinned, amused.

"Ignore the eyes," Tom continued. "If you win, they'll envy you. If you lose, they'll pity you. But they're not you. No one but you can understand how you've made it this far."

A warm feeling surged in Renly's chest. Instead of responding in jest, he spoke sincerely. "Thank you."

At the pinnacle, the cold is felt most.

Renly had once seen this phrase as a compliment. Reaching the heights, he believed, meant having climbed beyond the ordinary, where the cold air could be felt most clearly. It symbolized success, the kind everyone yearned for.

Now, he saw it differently. It was a sad truth—only those who reached such heights could understand the isolation and loneliness hidden in that cold. The rumors, the misconceptions—they spiraled out of control, feeding off one another.

Renly felt that loneliness now.

He hadn't even won a Tony yet, and yet, at twenty-three, he had already reached a level that few could ever dream of. And now, he felt the coldness, the alienation, growing all around him.

If he won tonight, would anyone still be by his side?