We are half of the equation (part 2)
back to part 1
* * * *
Simon flies home for the weekend. Ryan is tempted to do the same. But Simon has the excuse of work to do (even if Ryan doesn’t believe him) and Ryan only has the niggling feeling that Los Angeles is a city to run from as much as to.
He has gone home since, a few times. Dunwoody’s hardly a small town, though it’s a whole lot smaller than LA. It’s actually possible they care less back home, because everything he does that they object to, he does in Hollywood. And Hollywood works on different rules. Everyone knows that.
Except Ryan lives in Hollywood now, from the tips of his highlighted hair to the toes of his Dolce shoes. He has to play by those rules. And unlike Simon, he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. In any other town, Ryan’s unemployable.
So Ryan stays in LA for the weekend and watches the fall-out from a distance. Nobody actually comes right out and says it, which surprises him. No serious journalist, anyway. (Perez is still calling it confirmation). If it had been Paula and Kara, no eyebrows would have been raised. But maybe if it had been Simon and any other man, everybody would be agreeing with Perez. As it is, they’re stuck in a holding pattern.
One of the English tabloids links them together in a... well, it's hardly fitting to call it a 'blind' item anymore. In the other reports - of Simon's glorious and fleeting homecoming - there are pictures. Simon looks frustrated but not especially harassed; he's been answering the same questions as always. They just don't seem to care quite as much over there, and Ryan doesn't know if it's an England thing, an English entertainment thing, or just Simon. Ryan looks at the picture again. Simon is wearing all black, and someone he employs is holding a giant umbrella over him, but his hair is still wet. It rains in England, of course, even in May.
The first night, Ryan dreams of himself wearing a Ryan-shaped mask; he talks but the words come out of his mouth entirely different.
Simon says, "No comment, no comment, no comment," and Ryan would not be surprised to see him turning blue. Then he says, "I don't comment on my personal life." And the meaning of that one is problematic. It implies the existence of something to comment on. Simon says, "Yes, well?"
And then Ryan dreams of rain. Of walking beside a river, with heavy grey clouds above him, bundled up in a dark coat. Hidden under the black umbrella.
On Monday morning, after a night of too little sleep, Ryan is on the radio. His phone is sitting in front of him, on silent of course. It blinks at him: (1 New) Simon.
Ryan reads it during the next song.
Simon: Am home now.
He replies.
Ryan: I know you are. Read it in The Mirror
After the song, he’s interviewing Dakota Fanning. Now, she’s a sweet girl, even all grown up, but Ryan is still watching the phone when the new message comes in. He’s a professional. He waits. Fifteen minutes later, he reads the messages in reverse order.
Simon: You’re on the radio now, aren’t you?
Simon: Home LA, not home England. Or are we not doing a show together tomorrow night?
Ryan thinks about that for a little while. In the end, he writes the message, and turns the phone off.
Ryan: yes
* * * *
Ryan gets to Simon’s house after ten p.m. He parks his car in the driveway and knocks the door.
Simon answers with, “There you are.”
“Here I am.” Ryan nods.
“Are you going to come inside?”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Ryan. Come in, please.”
“All right.”
Ryan has to push past Simon to get in. He knows the house pretty well by now, from parties and a few more intimate gatherings. He knows where the kitchen is and where Simon hides the coffee when he’s trying to pretend he only drinks tea. He can see through to the living room, where Simon has spread contracts over the table. It looks like he has been busy.
“So,” Ryan says, “were you expecting me or not? The messages this morning…”
“I wanted to see what would happen.”
Simon is… something Ryan will not call nervous. But he has trailed after Ryan through the house, to the place at the bottom of the stairs. And he is watching without speaking.
Ryan leans against the banister. “My car’s outside.”
Simon’s sigh of exasperation could power turbines. “Ryan. If that’s the only thing you’re worried about… No one cares.”
“Yeah, they do,” Ryan says. He looks at Simon, wanting to be clear. Wanting him to understand the revelation that occurred sometime between standing in the club in the dark, and seeing the photograph. Something that he only realised today in the studio that he could say to Simon. He says, “They still care. Just tell me that you don’t.”
“Ryan.”
“That’s all. If my car is still outside your house tomorrow, people are going to care.”
“If they notice. My house isn’t watched the way yours is.”
“They’ll notice at some point. And everything they’ve been saying is going to be true. I don’t need you to say anything else. Just tell me-”
Simon stops him. “I don’t care. Now are you going to walk up those stairs or not?”
Ryan laughs. “Yeah. Okay.”
Ryan doesn’t look back on the way upstairs. He knows Simon is following. He drops his jacket on the chair as he walks into the bedroom, and kicks off his shoes before he reaches the bed.
Simon asks, “What do you-”
“This.” He pushes Simon onto the bed ahead of him, already working on buckles and buttons that don’t belong to him. Simon is smirking. “Shush,” Ryan says, distractedly.
“I wasn’t-”
“You were thinking about saying something. I know you too well.”
“Undoubtedly,” Simon says, and lifts his hips from the bed, so Ryan can get his jeans off.
Ryan only thinks to ask then: “This is okay?”
“Ryan, unlike the tiny blondes you’ve spent the past six years fucking, I’m not actually going to break. ‘This’ is okay. But if you would move a little, I think we could aim for better than that.”
Ryan should have brought a gag. He liberates the lube and condom from his pocket before tossing his own jeans over the side of the bed. He has to keep focussing on one thing at a time. T-shirt, T-shirt, fingers. Simon groans, and Ryan smiles. “Better?” he asks.
Ryan ignores the incoherent but probably insulting reply.
It has never felt like a choice, before. It has been hurried, and silent, with hands over each other’s mouths in a locked dressing room. Interrupted by girlfriends and on-screen fights that tipped over, until eventually it had been six years and he had almost forgotten that Simon was hiding something too.
Simon moans his name and shifts on the bed. First time on one of their own beds, too.
Ryan fumbles with the condom, but manages. “Simon,” he says, not sure where his voice has gone.
“Mmm?” Simon opens his eyes, and fixes his gaze on Ryan. “What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing’s…” He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to be swept away, this time, by lust or anger, or the adrenaline high of working together. It’s quiet in the house: just two men breathing, a little fast and heavy.
Simon is still watching him.
Ryan leans down, not sure until he’s there that it’s the kiss he’s looking for first. Simon’s hands settle on Ryan’s waist as though he is unsurprised by the unvoiced request. They kiss slowly, Ryan’s hands exploring Simon’s body, now that he is lying peaceably, not tensed and searching for new insult. He slips from firm, to soft, and back again, closer each time to where Simon would like him to be.
Ryan asks, “Okay?” one last time, pushing up again, ready to move. Simon has time for one final impatient huff of breath, before Ryan shifts down, and drives the complaint away.
* * * *
There’s not so much difference between running out of the house at 2 a.m., and waking up at 4 a.m. to the alarm shrieking. It’s still worthy of note. Ryan stirs and wonders what the hell sort of contortions in the night left Simon as the little spoon. He gets out of bed as quietly as he can manage.
Simon has a really nice shower, which Ryan avails himself of. There’s no option except his clothes from last night, but at least he changed before coming over, so they’re clean enough. He’s turned up at the radio in worse, when he’s been unable to hit full wakefulness before leaving the house.
What Simon lacks is any kind of decent product, but Ryan makes do. He’s got his own stuff at the studio anyway.
He looks at himself in the mirror. A little more stubble than usual, one odd mark shadowing the collar of his t-shirt, and an expression he can’t quite shake. Ryan smiles.
Simon is still asleep, or asleep again. Ryan stands beside the bed, and waits. There’s a notepad somewhere, and if he stuck it to the mirror, Simon would be sure to see. He stays there, swaying from side to side by the bed.
Simon groans. He opens his eyes, and looks blearily at Ryan. “Hmm?”
“I’m going now. Radio.”
Simon manages focus, and smiles. It’s unhurried, and unthinking, because he’s still not quite awake. Simon says, “All right then, beautiful, I’ll see you later.”
“Beautiful, now, really? You already got me into bed, you know.”
“As I recall, you got me into bed, actually. And what did you want me to say? It’s four forty-six a.m. and you’re standing beside my bed trying to wake me up with the force of your stare. I can only imagine this is because you want to tell me that it’s the morning after, and you’re going to work, and you’ll see me tonight. ‘Let me go back to sleep, Ryan’ didn’t seem appropriate.”
“Now that you put it like that-” Ryan concedes.
“Exactly. Now come here.” Simon puts his hand on the back of Ryan’s neck, and pulls him down. Morning-after kisses are never as romantic as people make out. Ryan’s the only one who’s brushed his teeth, for one thing. But Simon keeps his hand on Ryan’s cheek when he breaks the kiss, and looks at Ryan.
“Yeah?” Ryan asks.
“Nothing. You do look- you know.”
Ryan looks at the floor. “All right. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Of course. Try not to end up in nervous hysterics again before then?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Ryan laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Bye.”
“Bye,” Simon calls back, with his eyes already closing.
There’s no one outside the house, but Ryan watches the bushes and the street when he pulls the car out. Still no one, and he allows himself the moment of whatever this is. It’s been a long time since he had a morning after. He couldn’t trust it with the boys, and didn’t want it with the girls. Work has always got in the way - when his alarm rings at 4 a.m., he’s almost always alone.
In the rear-view mirror, he sees the red mark again. Ryan pulls at his collar to cover it. But it doesn’t matter, so much. Not this morning.
* * * *
The theme of this week on the radio (in Hollywood as a whole) is the release of the last Twilight movie. Following delay after delay, the LA premiere of Breaking Dawn is this Friday.
Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart are in the studio, and it’s a suitably important interview that for a while Ryan thinks of nothing but that.
“Guys. Welcome. It’s good to see you. Excited about Friday?”
“We are,” Rob agrees. “Obviously, the bigger test is whether the audiences like the movie, but the premieres are always interesting. You’re coming to this one, right?”
“I am, yeah. And I’m extremely excited. Though a little bit sad too, you know, to see the end of the series. Is it like that for you guys? Kristen?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s like the end of an era, for us, I think. It’s been this thing that’s taken up, literally, years of my life, and to finish it is…” She trails off.
“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “Of course. Now, it seems like we’ve been waiting forever for this last one. I gotta ask: what took you guys so long?”
Kristen laughs. “I know, I know. I mean, last time we spoke, you were straight.”
Rob turns a really, really weird colour. Ryan should stop hanging out with British guys who scandalise this easily. Rob probably thinks it should have been a private thing too.
Kristen’s blushing. “Sorry, was that totally out of line?”
“No,” Ryan says, “Of course not. I mean, it’s not exactly true. Last time we spoke, I just hadn’t gotten round to telling anyone.”
Then she looks at him. “Do you actually consider yourself, you know, gay? As opposed to bi or whatever. I’m not sure I ever heard you say.”
“Kristen…” Rob is muttering, and covering his face with his hands. He still hasn’t learned the star trick of bullshitting your way through anything. It’s sweet.
Ryan says, “It’s okay. And, no, I maybe haven’t said. Actions speak louder, and all that. I guess, if I say bi, most people are going to assume it’s a fifty-fifty thing. Like I was with a guy this month, so next month it’ll be a girl. And obviously I’ve had relationships with women that I wouldn’t like to diminish. I’m still friends with some of them, and I wouldn’t want to call what we had anything less than special. But I honestly don’t see myself with another woman anytime soon. So, yeah, in the absence of a better word to use, yeah. Yeah, I would say that’s accurate enough. I’m gay.”
Kristen is nodding and smiling; Rob is still watching through his fingers.
Ryan says, “So, now, back to the film. Is it fair to say that a lot of the story is pretty much about the build up to a war?”
* * * *
Ryan doesn’t see Simon until right before they go onstage that evening. There’s not time for anything more than hellos, which is fine for Ryan. As long as he can see Simon’s not in the middle of a supposedly-heterosexual freak-out, he can cope until later. Simon looks a bit more like he has something he wants to say. Ryan shrugs - there’ll be time later.
Angie has picked Martina McBride, all-out country, and she’s been terrified since she did that everyone’s going to hate it. Naturally she blows everyone away, but then she was always one of Ryan’s favourites. Paula’s in tears, on her feet, and for a long time they can’t get the audience quiet enough for the judges to speak.
Even Simon raves, and they have time, so when Ryan gets back onstage he puts his arm around Angie and asks, “Simon?”
“Yes?”
“Now, we saw on the tape that Angie was a little nervous about that choice. I think everyone else knew that it would be fine, but do you understand why she-”
“I don’t think that really matters,” Simon begins, instantly argumentative as usual. But he doesn’t raise his voice, oddly serious. “If you’re afraid of doing something, it doesn’t matter if the rest of the world tells you it’s going to be all right. If you’re afraid, and you do it anyway, that’s- I don’t know what the word is.”
“Courage,” Paula fills in. “That’s pure courage.” She’s looking between Ryan and Simon like she couldn’t be prouder of the both of them. And it’s sweet and all, but they’re on live TV and Ryan hadn’t meant to start a love-in.
He pulls Angie a little closer, so the camera will fix on her. “Angie Reed, ladies and gentleman, with that courageous performance.”
Simon comes to his dressing room after the show. Ryan closes the door behind them both.
“Are you going to throw another fit?” Simon asks. “Was that behaving as though you can’t handle the show?”
“Do you think I can’t handle the show?”
“Of course not. But I heard you on the radio.”
“You were still asleep when I was on the radio.”
“Fine, then, it was brought to my attention afterwards. Nevertheless, I heard it. So consider it an apology, I suppose, if you must, if I behaved before like you didn’t have reason for your…” Simon waves his hand about as if to indicate the spectrum of reasons that kept Ryan in the closet for his entire adult life up until four months ago. Simon says, “So?”
“I think that was okay,” Ryan says. “What you said. You didn’t need to say it, but I appreciate it all the same. Paula, on the other hand…”
Simon laughs, and Ryan pins him against the door.
“What now?” Simon asks. “I can’t possibly have offended you in the last thirty seconds.”
“No,” Ryan agrees. “I just want to show you something. Prove I’m not mad.”
“Mmmm?” Simon reaches behind to turn the door mechanism. Ryan consoles himself with the thought that if they didn’t want him giving Simon blow-jobs against his dressing room door, they wouldn’t have provided such secure-sounding locks.
* * * *
There’s something Ryan can’t resist about a red carpet. And while he enjoys holding the mic on one, just attending a premiere is nice too. Even he needs a night off once in a while.
Simon frowns at him before getting out of the limo. “And this is one of those vampire books you like?”
“It’s called Breaking Dawn. It’s the movie of the fourth book.”
“The vampire book,” Simon clarifies.
“Are you coming with me or not?”
“Oh, I’m coming, I just want to know what I’m letting myself in for.”
“Vampires,” Ryan says. “Sparkly ones. You’ll like Edward.”
“You like Edward.”
“And you like me.”
“Some days,” Simon says, and Ryan can tell he’s trying not to laugh, “but that’s not how it works, darling.”
Ryan shrugs. They’ve been sitting in a parked limo for a little while now, so they should probably get out before people think Ryan’s giving Simon a blow-job to bribe him to go to the premiere. He opens the door. “You’re going to have a good time. Trust me.”
“Again,” Simon says, “of that I have little doubt.”
Ryan answers a few questions on the carpet, and poses for a few pictures. Simon, however, is following his usual habits. He’s stopped, halfway down, and the reporters and photographers and autograph seekers are going to him instead, letting him hold court there.
Ryan would actually like to see the movie. He’s been waiting.
Ryan walks back down the carpet, to find Simon in the middle of an involved explanation of something. The summary will probably be that Simon is right, and everyone else is wrong, but Ryan doesn’t have the time. He grabs the gesticulating hand, and pulls.
This is a busy premiere, and Ryan has to lift their arms above his head to steer Simon towards him and the door.
They get inside, eventually, and Ryan turns, expecting Simon to protest being dragged away from his fans.
Simon is looking at him, smiling, but strangely. Surprised, or confused, or waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Ryan looks down. “Oh.”
“Hmm.” Simon is still watching him. “Did you realise you were doing that?”
Ryan looks at their joined hands - his fingers pushed between Simon’s. “No,” he says. He hadn’t. He hadn’t been making a statement - to the world or to Simon or even to himself - he had just wanted Simon to hurry up.
Last year, he would have yelled, or maybe pulled Simon by the arm, or the jacket.
Ryan twitches his fingers, experimentally. Simon’s hand is warm, because he’s always a little overheated in the LA sun. Ryan closes his hand more firmly over Simon’s. “Okay?”
“There are probably photographers out there.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Ryan.”
“Let them talk. No confirmation, no denial, right? Let them think what they want.”
“Okay,” Simon says, and Ryan doesn’t know if it’s acknowledgement or a statement that he’s fine with this.
Simon looks at Ryan, reaches across the little space, and straightens his tie. “Okay,” Simon says again.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “Now, the movie’s about to start. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Simon says. “You do realise that this would be much easier if we didn’t work together.”
“For us, or for them? Because most of the time I get to see you is at the studios.”
“For them,” Simon shrugs, “which would make it easier for us. No one could say… you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“And we both know that’s it’s nearly-”
“Yeah. Still…”
“What?”
Ryan turns to look at Simon properly. “I just think I have another year in me. And I’m okay with things being difficult for a while longer.”
Simon grins. “All right. One more. A chance to go out with a little ceremony, don’t you agree?”
“I do, of course, think we should go for spectacle. And also that we should get into the theatre before the film starts without us, and I’m forced to kill you. Because that would put a bit of a damper on our final year.”
Simon looks at Ryan as though he thinks him insane, and can’t understand why he puts up with such nonsense. It’s a familiar expression, and Ryan smiles. Simon tugs on his hand. “Lead on, then.” Ryan does.
[+ deleted scene]
FIN. Feedback and concrit is always welcome here, but even more than usual on this one. If you'd prefer to do it privately, my email is in my profile.
* * * *
Simon flies home for the weekend. Ryan is tempted to do the same. But Simon has the excuse of work to do (even if Ryan doesn’t believe him) and Ryan only has the niggling feeling that Los Angeles is a city to run from as much as to.
He has gone home since, a few times. Dunwoody’s hardly a small town, though it’s a whole lot smaller than LA. It’s actually possible they care less back home, because everything he does that they object to, he does in Hollywood. And Hollywood works on different rules. Everyone knows that.
Except Ryan lives in Hollywood now, from the tips of his highlighted hair to the toes of his Dolce shoes. He has to play by those rules. And unlike Simon, he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. In any other town, Ryan’s unemployable.
So Ryan stays in LA for the weekend and watches the fall-out from a distance. Nobody actually comes right out and says it, which surprises him. No serious journalist, anyway. (Perez is still calling it confirmation). If it had been Paula and Kara, no eyebrows would have been raised. But maybe if it had been Simon and any other man, everybody would be agreeing with Perez. As it is, they’re stuck in a holding pattern.
One of the English tabloids links them together in a... well, it's hardly fitting to call it a 'blind' item anymore. In the other reports - of Simon's glorious and fleeting homecoming - there are pictures. Simon looks frustrated but not especially harassed; he's been answering the same questions as always. They just don't seem to care quite as much over there, and Ryan doesn't know if it's an England thing, an English entertainment thing, or just Simon. Ryan looks at the picture again. Simon is wearing all black, and someone he employs is holding a giant umbrella over him, but his hair is still wet. It rains in England, of course, even in May.
The first night, Ryan dreams of himself wearing a Ryan-shaped mask; he talks but the words come out of his mouth entirely different.
Simon says, "No comment, no comment, no comment," and Ryan would not be surprised to see him turning blue. Then he says, "I don't comment on my personal life." And the meaning of that one is problematic. It implies the existence of something to comment on. Simon says, "Yes, well?"
And then Ryan dreams of rain. Of walking beside a river, with heavy grey clouds above him, bundled up in a dark coat. Hidden under the black umbrella.
On Monday morning, after a night of too little sleep, Ryan is on the radio. His phone is sitting in front of him, on silent of course. It blinks at him: (1 New) Simon.
Ryan reads it during the next song.
Simon: Am home now.
He replies.
Ryan: I know you are. Read it in The Mirror
After the song, he’s interviewing Dakota Fanning. Now, she’s a sweet girl, even all grown up, but Ryan is still watching the phone when the new message comes in. He’s a professional. He waits. Fifteen minutes later, he reads the messages in reverse order.
Simon: You’re on the radio now, aren’t you?
Simon: Home LA, not home England. Or are we not doing a show together tomorrow night?
Ryan thinks about that for a little while. In the end, he writes the message, and turns the phone off.
Ryan: yes
* * * *
Ryan gets to Simon’s house after ten p.m. He parks his car in the driveway and knocks the door.
Simon answers with, “There you are.”
“Here I am.” Ryan nods.
“Are you going to come inside?”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Ryan. Come in, please.”
“All right.”
Ryan has to push past Simon to get in. He knows the house pretty well by now, from parties and a few more intimate gatherings. He knows where the kitchen is and where Simon hides the coffee when he’s trying to pretend he only drinks tea. He can see through to the living room, where Simon has spread contracts over the table. It looks like he has been busy.
“So,” Ryan says, “were you expecting me or not? The messages this morning…”
“I wanted to see what would happen.”
Simon is… something Ryan will not call nervous. But he has trailed after Ryan through the house, to the place at the bottom of the stairs. And he is watching without speaking.
Ryan leans against the banister. “My car’s outside.”
Simon’s sigh of exasperation could power turbines. “Ryan. If that’s the only thing you’re worried about… No one cares.”
“Yeah, they do,” Ryan says. He looks at Simon, wanting to be clear. Wanting him to understand the revelation that occurred sometime between standing in the club in the dark, and seeing the photograph. Something that he only realised today in the studio that he could say to Simon. He says, “They still care. Just tell me that you don’t.”
“Ryan.”
“That’s all. If my car is still outside your house tomorrow, people are going to care.”
“If they notice. My house isn’t watched the way yours is.”
“They’ll notice at some point. And everything they’ve been saying is going to be true. I don’t need you to say anything else. Just tell me-”
Simon stops him. “I don’t care. Now are you going to walk up those stairs or not?”
Ryan laughs. “Yeah. Okay.”
Ryan doesn’t look back on the way upstairs. He knows Simon is following. He drops his jacket on the chair as he walks into the bedroom, and kicks off his shoes before he reaches the bed.
Simon asks, “What do you-”
“This.” He pushes Simon onto the bed ahead of him, already working on buckles and buttons that don’t belong to him. Simon is smirking. “Shush,” Ryan says, distractedly.
“I wasn’t-”
“You were thinking about saying something. I know you too well.”
“Undoubtedly,” Simon says, and lifts his hips from the bed, so Ryan can get his jeans off.
Ryan only thinks to ask then: “This is okay?”
“Ryan, unlike the tiny blondes you’ve spent the past six years fucking, I’m not actually going to break. ‘This’ is okay. But if you would move a little, I think we could aim for better than that.”
Ryan should have brought a gag. He liberates the lube and condom from his pocket before tossing his own jeans over the side of the bed. He has to keep focussing on one thing at a time. T-shirt, T-shirt, fingers. Simon groans, and Ryan smiles. “Better?” he asks.
Ryan ignores the incoherent but probably insulting reply.
It has never felt like a choice, before. It has been hurried, and silent, with hands over each other’s mouths in a locked dressing room. Interrupted by girlfriends and on-screen fights that tipped over, until eventually it had been six years and he had almost forgotten that Simon was hiding something too.
Simon moans his name and shifts on the bed. First time on one of their own beds, too.
Ryan fumbles with the condom, but manages. “Simon,” he says, not sure where his voice has gone.
“Mmm?” Simon opens his eyes, and fixes his gaze on Ryan. “What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing’s…” He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to be swept away, this time, by lust or anger, or the adrenaline high of working together. It’s quiet in the house: just two men breathing, a little fast and heavy.
Simon is still watching him.
Ryan leans down, not sure until he’s there that it’s the kiss he’s looking for first. Simon’s hands settle on Ryan’s waist as though he is unsurprised by the unvoiced request. They kiss slowly, Ryan’s hands exploring Simon’s body, now that he is lying peaceably, not tensed and searching for new insult. He slips from firm, to soft, and back again, closer each time to where Simon would like him to be.
Ryan asks, “Okay?” one last time, pushing up again, ready to move. Simon has time for one final impatient huff of breath, before Ryan shifts down, and drives the complaint away.
* * * *
There’s not so much difference between running out of the house at 2 a.m., and waking up at 4 a.m. to the alarm shrieking. It’s still worthy of note. Ryan stirs and wonders what the hell sort of contortions in the night left Simon as the little spoon. He gets out of bed as quietly as he can manage.
Simon has a really nice shower, which Ryan avails himself of. There’s no option except his clothes from last night, but at least he changed before coming over, so they’re clean enough. He’s turned up at the radio in worse, when he’s been unable to hit full wakefulness before leaving the house.
What Simon lacks is any kind of decent product, but Ryan makes do. He’s got his own stuff at the studio anyway.
He looks at himself in the mirror. A little more stubble than usual, one odd mark shadowing the collar of his t-shirt, and an expression he can’t quite shake. Ryan smiles.
Simon is still asleep, or asleep again. Ryan stands beside the bed, and waits. There’s a notepad somewhere, and if he stuck it to the mirror, Simon would be sure to see. He stays there, swaying from side to side by the bed.
Simon groans. He opens his eyes, and looks blearily at Ryan. “Hmm?”
“I’m going now. Radio.”
Simon manages focus, and smiles. It’s unhurried, and unthinking, because he’s still not quite awake. Simon says, “All right then, beautiful, I’ll see you later.”
“Beautiful, now, really? You already got me into bed, you know.”
“As I recall, you got me into bed, actually. And what did you want me to say? It’s four forty-six a.m. and you’re standing beside my bed trying to wake me up with the force of your stare. I can only imagine this is because you want to tell me that it’s the morning after, and you’re going to work, and you’ll see me tonight. ‘Let me go back to sleep, Ryan’ didn’t seem appropriate.”
“Now that you put it like that-” Ryan concedes.
“Exactly. Now come here.” Simon puts his hand on the back of Ryan’s neck, and pulls him down. Morning-after kisses are never as romantic as people make out. Ryan’s the only one who’s brushed his teeth, for one thing. But Simon keeps his hand on Ryan’s cheek when he breaks the kiss, and looks at Ryan.
“Yeah?” Ryan asks.
“Nothing. You do look- you know.”
Ryan looks at the floor. “All right. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Of course. Try not to end up in nervous hysterics again before then?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Ryan laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Bye.”
“Bye,” Simon calls back, with his eyes already closing.
There’s no one outside the house, but Ryan watches the bushes and the street when he pulls the car out. Still no one, and he allows himself the moment of whatever this is. It’s been a long time since he had a morning after. He couldn’t trust it with the boys, and didn’t want it with the girls. Work has always got in the way - when his alarm rings at 4 a.m., he’s almost always alone.
In the rear-view mirror, he sees the red mark again. Ryan pulls at his collar to cover it. But it doesn’t matter, so much. Not this morning.
* * * *
The theme of this week on the radio (in Hollywood as a whole) is the release of the last Twilight movie. Following delay after delay, the LA premiere of Breaking Dawn is this Friday.
Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart are in the studio, and it’s a suitably important interview that for a while Ryan thinks of nothing but that.
“Guys. Welcome. It’s good to see you. Excited about Friday?”
“We are,” Rob agrees. “Obviously, the bigger test is whether the audiences like the movie, but the premieres are always interesting. You’re coming to this one, right?”
“I am, yeah. And I’m extremely excited. Though a little bit sad too, you know, to see the end of the series. Is it like that for you guys? Kristen?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s like the end of an era, for us, I think. It’s been this thing that’s taken up, literally, years of my life, and to finish it is…” She trails off.
“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “Of course. Now, it seems like we’ve been waiting forever for this last one. I gotta ask: what took you guys so long?”
Kristen laughs. “I know, I know. I mean, last time we spoke, you were straight.”
Rob turns a really, really weird colour. Ryan should stop hanging out with British guys who scandalise this easily. Rob probably thinks it should have been a private thing too.
Kristen’s blushing. “Sorry, was that totally out of line?”
“No,” Ryan says, “Of course not. I mean, it’s not exactly true. Last time we spoke, I just hadn’t gotten round to telling anyone.”
Then she looks at him. “Do you actually consider yourself, you know, gay? As opposed to bi or whatever. I’m not sure I ever heard you say.”
“Kristen…” Rob is muttering, and covering his face with his hands. He still hasn’t learned the star trick of bullshitting your way through anything. It’s sweet.
Ryan says, “It’s okay. And, no, I maybe haven’t said. Actions speak louder, and all that. I guess, if I say bi, most people are going to assume it’s a fifty-fifty thing. Like I was with a guy this month, so next month it’ll be a girl. And obviously I’ve had relationships with women that I wouldn’t like to diminish. I’m still friends with some of them, and I wouldn’t want to call what we had anything less than special. But I honestly don’t see myself with another woman anytime soon. So, yeah, in the absence of a better word to use, yeah. Yeah, I would say that’s accurate enough. I’m gay.”
Kristen is nodding and smiling; Rob is still watching through his fingers.
Ryan says, “So, now, back to the film. Is it fair to say that a lot of the story is pretty much about the build up to a war?”
* * * *
Ryan doesn’t see Simon until right before they go onstage that evening. There’s not time for anything more than hellos, which is fine for Ryan. As long as he can see Simon’s not in the middle of a supposedly-heterosexual freak-out, he can cope until later. Simon looks a bit more like he has something he wants to say. Ryan shrugs - there’ll be time later.
Angie has picked Martina McBride, all-out country, and she’s been terrified since she did that everyone’s going to hate it. Naturally she blows everyone away, but then she was always one of Ryan’s favourites. Paula’s in tears, on her feet, and for a long time they can’t get the audience quiet enough for the judges to speak.
Even Simon raves, and they have time, so when Ryan gets back onstage he puts his arm around Angie and asks, “Simon?”
“Yes?”
“Now, we saw on the tape that Angie was a little nervous about that choice. I think everyone else knew that it would be fine, but do you understand why she-”
“I don’t think that really matters,” Simon begins, instantly argumentative as usual. But he doesn’t raise his voice, oddly serious. “If you’re afraid of doing something, it doesn’t matter if the rest of the world tells you it’s going to be all right. If you’re afraid, and you do it anyway, that’s- I don’t know what the word is.”
“Courage,” Paula fills in. “That’s pure courage.” She’s looking between Ryan and Simon like she couldn’t be prouder of the both of them. And it’s sweet and all, but they’re on live TV and Ryan hadn’t meant to start a love-in.
He pulls Angie a little closer, so the camera will fix on her. “Angie Reed, ladies and gentleman, with that courageous performance.”
Simon comes to his dressing room after the show. Ryan closes the door behind them both.
“Are you going to throw another fit?” Simon asks. “Was that behaving as though you can’t handle the show?”
“Do you think I can’t handle the show?”
“Of course not. But I heard you on the radio.”
“You were still asleep when I was on the radio.”
“Fine, then, it was brought to my attention afterwards. Nevertheless, I heard it. So consider it an apology, I suppose, if you must, if I behaved before like you didn’t have reason for your…” Simon waves his hand about as if to indicate the spectrum of reasons that kept Ryan in the closet for his entire adult life up until four months ago. Simon says, “So?”
“I think that was okay,” Ryan says. “What you said. You didn’t need to say it, but I appreciate it all the same. Paula, on the other hand…”
Simon laughs, and Ryan pins him against the door.
“What now?” Simon asks. “I can’t possibly have offended you in the last thirty seconds.”
“No,” Ryan agrees. “I just want to show you something. Prove I’m not mad.”
“Mmmm?” Simon reaches behind to turn the door mechanism. Ryan consoles himself with the thought that if they didn’t want him giving Simon blow-jobs against his dressing room door, they wouldn’t have provided such secure-sounding locks.
* * * *
There’s something Ryan can’t resist about a red carpet. And while he enjoys holding the mic on one, just attending a premiere is nice too. Even he needs a night off once in a while.
Simon frowns at him before getting out of the limo. “And this is one of those vampire books you like?”
“It’s called Breaking Dawn. It’s the movie of the fourth book.”
“The vampire book,” Simon clarifies.
“Are you coming with me or not?”
“Oh, I’m coming, I just want to know what I’m letting myself in for.”
“Vampires,” Ryan says. “Sparkly ones. You’ll like Edward.”
“You like Edward.”
“And you like me.”
“Some days,” Simon says, and Ryan can tell he’s trying not to laugh, “but that’s not how it works, darling.”
Ryan shrugs. They’ve been sitting in a parked limo for a little while now, so they should probably get out before people think Ryan’s giving Simon a blow-job to bribe him to go to the premiere. He opens the door. “You’re going to have a good time. Trust me.”
“Again,” Simon says, “of that I have little doubt.”
Ryan answers a few questions on the carpet, and poses for a few pictures. Simon, however, is following his usual habits. He’s stopped, halfway down, and the reporters and photographers and autograph seekers are going to him instead, letting him hold court there.
Ryan would actually like to see the movie. He’s been waiting.
Ryan walks back down the carpet, to find Simon in the middle of an involved explanation of something. The summary will probably be that Simon is right, and everyone else is wrong, but Ryan doesn’t have the time. He grabs the gesticulating hand, and pulls.
This is a busy premiere, and Ryan has to lift their arms above his head to steer Simon towards him and the door.
They get inside, eventually, and Ryan turns, expecting Simon to protest being dragged away from his fans.
Simon is looking at him, smiling, but strangely. Surprised, or confused, or waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Ryan looks down. “Oh.”
“Hmm.” Simon is still watching him. “Did you realise you were doing that?”
Ryan looks at their joined hands - his fingers pushed between Simon’s. “No,” he says. He hadn’t. He hadn’t been making a statement - to the world or to Simon or even to himself - he had just wanted Simon to hurry up.
Last year, he would have yelled, or maybe pulled Simon by the arm, or the jacket.
Ryan twitches his fingers, experimentally. Simon’s hand is warm, because he’s always a little overheated in the LA sun. Ryan closes his hand more firmly over Simon’s. “Okay?”
“There are probably photographers out there.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Ryan.”
“Let them talk. No confirmation, no denial, right? Let them think what they want.”
“Okay,” Simon says, and Ryan doesn’t know if it’s acknowledgement or a statement that he’s fine with this.
Simon looks at Ryan, reaches across the little space, and straightens his tie. “Okay,” Simon says again.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “Now, the movie’s about to start. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Simon says. “You do realise that this would be much easier if we didn’t work together.”
“For us, or for them? Because most of the time I get to see you is at the studios.”
“For them,” Simon shrugs, “which would make it easier for us. No one could say… you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“And we both know that’s it’s nearly-”
“Yeah. Still…”
“What?”
Ryan turns to look at Simon properly. “I just think I have another year in me. And I’m okay with things being difficult for a while longer.”
Simon grins. “All right. One more. A chance to go out with a little ceremony, don’t you agree?”
“I do, of course, think we should go for spectacle. And also that we should get into the theatre before the film starts without us, and I’m forced to kill you. Because that would put a bit of a damper on our final year.”
Simon looks at Ryan as though he thinks him insane, and can’t understand why he puts up with such nonsense. It’s a familiar expression, and Ryan smiles. Simon tugs on his hand. “Lead on, then.” Ryan does.
[+ deleted scene]
FIN. Feedback and concrit is always welcome here, but even more than usual on this one. If you'd prefer to do it privately, my email is in my profile.