RPF: The Beggar Shan't Have'e- James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender- Part Three
Part one, part two.
Warnings: language, mpreg, disordered body image.
The Beggar Shan't Have'e- Part Three
It’s early January, the second Saturday of the new year. Sara and Joshua are both staying with James’ mother for the weekend, both to give her some time with her grandchildren, and so that James and Michael can have time to recover after the exhaustion of spending a Christmas with two excitable young children.
Michael could swear that he still has the sounds of some electronic toy or another ringing in his ears. Now it is silent, and Michael lies in a half-awakened haze, warm and comfortable, until James wakes up. He sits up and stretches, before looking at Michael, smiling, and then shaking him properly into the land of the conscious. Michael groans weakly.
“Good morning,” James grins, climbing atop his sleepy husband.
“James,” Michael protests, squirming, “Get off, you’ll squash me!”
“Are you calling me fat?” James demands.
“No, but you are, y’know, however-many-pounds-of-baby-heavier than usual right now…”
“Waah, you’re calling me fat,” James mock-wails, hitting Michael playfully on the chest.
“Get off me and then we’ll talk about what I may or may not be calling you.” James rolls over so he’s laying on his side next to Michael, and nudges his shoulder with his chin, chuckling. “Why have you got so much energy?” Michael groans.
“Dunno! It’s fun though. Let’s get up and do something, Michael!”
“It’s,” Michael leans over to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, “-7.30am on a Saturday,” he whimpers, trying to burrow down under the covers. James grabs the duvet off him, and then kisses him when he tries to fight to get it back. “Ugh,” Michael scoffs, leaning in again, “Okay, you win.”
They kiss for a while, until James lies back into the pillows, looking at the ceiling, resting his hands on the bump so that his fingers form a little triangle on his stomach.
“Let’s have… a nice day,” he says vaguely. Michael rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, to look at James.
“A nice day? What exactly does that entail?” he asks.
”We just do whatever we want,” James smiles, “We go where we want, eat what we want, do what we want. If we want to have sex all morning and then go back to bed to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, we should. What’s stopping us?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Michael says, “Apart from maybe the eating what we want, because I’m meant to be getting back in shape, and because if I let you eat what you want you’d just have butterscotch all day, and we can’t have that.”
“Why not?” James scoffs, “There’s nothing wrong with butterscotch. In fact, I want my packet pudding now. Get up and make me some.”
“You better watch your tone, mister, I’m not your slave,” Michael grumbles good-humouredly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his tousled hair. James smirks.
“Get up and make me some, please,” James trills. Michael punches him gently on the arm, and does as he is told. James follows, bringing the duvet with him. Michael tries to object; James says only, “Today is nice day, Michael, nice day.”
James eats two bowls of the packet pudding, and is starting on his third, despite Michael’s attempts to get him to eat some cereal or toast.
“C’mon, James, you have to eat something other than packet pudding.”
“Nope. No, I don’t. Nuh-uh.”
“You’ll give yourself an upset tummy.”
“No I won’t.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Michael,” James whines a short while later, curled up on their sofa, still in his pyjamas, “My stomach hurts.”
Michael only smiles, holds the, “What did I tell you?” and sits down next to him, James wriggling so his head is in his lap, and reaches out his “magic hands”, as James calls them, to rub his husband’s tummy. After a while, Michael moves one hand to pick up a script that’s sitting on the coffee table, glancing over it again.
“What’s that one, then?” James asks.
”The Year’s Nothing,” Michael tells him.
“Oh, the World War Two one? With, um-“
“Jude Law,”
“Yes, that one. When do you start shooting that?”
“In a month or so,”
“Don’t leave me,” James begs dramatically, “Who will rub my tummy when I make poor decisions about butterscotch?”
“You can come and hang around on set, if you like,” Michael offers, “I’ll make sure that my trailer is comfortable for you.”
“Perfect,” James says with a smile, kissing him, “Michael, you know what I said about having sex all morning? The offer stands.”
“Well, exercise is exercise,” Michael grins, “And it beats going for a run.”
* * *
When James arrives on set, Michael comes up to him and kisses him softly. Michael is already filthy and bloodstained, his uniform blackened and torn.
“Oh dear,” James comments, fingering it hesitantly, “What a mess you’ve made already. Please don’t get the costume department’s efforts all over me.”
“You look lovely, actually, so I’ll be very careful,” Michael smiles, looking over James’ outfit. He’s wearing dark jeans (women’s maternity jeans, but no one would be able to tell), a cream cable knit jumper and a warm camel coat. Michael pats him gently on the small of his back, pushing him in the direction of his trailer, “I should get back, but you make yourself comfortable, babe, okay?”
“Oh- oh, okay,” James says, a bit startled, having expected to have more time with Michael before going to the trailer. He does, though, and starts to wander around the fairly small space, looking at Michael’s things. There is a photo attached to the mirror, one that James recognises, from when Joshua was about eight months old. The photo is of James, with Joshua on his hip, Sara standing beside him, one of James’ hands on the back of her hair. He’s mid-sentence, laughing, probably objecting to Michael taking the photo. It warms James’ heart to see it here. He sits down on Michael’s chair and looks directly in front in him, the crumpled copy of the script catching his eye. He picks it up and reads a section.
JEREMY
Just come on, Harry! I know you can make it! (HARRY struggles to move further; JEREMY’s eyes and tone grow desperate) COME ON! HARRY!
HARRY
I- I can’t, Jeremy! My leg, it- it’s totally buggered. Just go, leave me behind! (JEREMY doesn’t move; HARRY musters up the strength to place both of his hands on JEREMY’S chest and tries to push him away) Jeremy, don’t play the fucking hero!
JEREMY
If I make it out of this damned war alive, I’m not gonna be a man anymore, Harry. And I’d rather be a hero than a shell. (JEREMY leans close to HARRY, and places a kiss to his forehead. Tears fall from HARRY’s eyes, and then he shuts them; he thinks he is being left behind, and resigning himself to his own death. Suddenly, JEREMY grabs HARRY and throws him over his shoulders. HARRY protests as much as he can.)
HARRY
Bloody Hell, Jeremy, don’t be an idiot!
James stops reading, putting the script back on the desk. Michael had explained the plot to him before, but James hadn’t actually read any of the script until now, and something about it irks him a bit. He feels like it will be one of those films: one that pushes the boundaries of a male relationship to the point it is a romance, encouraging people to support such a relationship, and then denying it all with sadly much less convincing female love interests. Like the Sherlock Holmes trilogy. Indeed, like X-Men: First Class. It isn’t that James is against heretosexual love stories being depicted in films. That would be ridiculous, and make him just as bad as those who deny homosexual ones. No, it isn’t that. It’s just that constant teasing. Dangling these relationships in front of viewers faces and then snatching them away in favour of what’s “normal”. Things like “bromance” have made this idea of casual homosexuality fashionable and desirable, but that can be turned off whenever the actors fancy. James has never really defined himself, never really found the need to, but he knows that he has suffered for loving Michael, and sometimes it’s just not fair that these men can have their hands all over one another in every interview, say all these romantic things, even hold hands, but then go home and be safe with their wives and girlfriends, and not have to bear the hatred that has sometimes rained down on he and Michael.
He sighs, and moves away from the dressing table, suppressing his annoyance. He suddenly feels rather sleepy, and a bit too warm. He removes his coat, and sits down on Michael’s bed, and after a few minutes of sitting there, decides he should take a short nap, as he’s sure Michael will awaken him as soon as he joins him. He pulls his knees up into his chest, as much as the bump allows, shuts his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.
He wakes to someone murmuring his name, and shaking his shoulder gently. He opens his eyes groggily, groaning.
“Mm?”
“Time to wake up, sleepy-head,” Michael’s voice says fondly.
James feels gross. He’s too hot, and sweaty and sticky. He shouldn’t have slept in his jumper, he decides now. Michael moves back as James pulls himself into a sitting position.
“How long have I been asleep?” he asks blearily, disorientated, blinking in the light.
“I don’t know- when did you go to sleep, lovely?”
“Just after I got here…”
“In that case, you slept for about… four hours.”
James frowns, and he feels a sinking feeling in the centre of his chest.
“You… you’ve been gone for four hours?” he asks hesitantly.
“Well, basically, yeah. We were finishing off a scene and then I got talking to Jude for quite a while.”
“Jude- Jude Law?”
Michael laughs and ruffles James’ hair. James prickles, instantly feeling stupid.
“Of course Jude Law, silly, who else? C’mon, wake yourself up and we’ll go and get some dinner, okay?”
“Okay,” James says, deciding to say no more about it. He can’t deny Michael having a chat with a co-star, after all. He swallows his hurt, and smiles.
* * *
James and Michael are at a party together, at the house of a past co-star of Michael’s. Michael takes to the atmosphere like a duck to water, getting on well with everyone, whilst James is a little more reserved, feeling a bit awkward as many of the guests he hasn’t met before. Jennifer was invited, but is currently at the wrap party of Mockingjay, so couldn’t make it, and James silently wishes she was here, as she relaxes him and comforts him, helps him open up and be more sociable. It isn’t that Michael has abandoned James: he sticks close to him and often holds his hand, but it doesn’t help the fact that James feels particularly introverted and uncomfortable today. There are a few nice moments when guests come up and congratulate him on the baby, and watch to touch his belly. Karen Gillan, who James had worked with and befriended when they were on the set of The House of Sleep, cannot stop fawning over the bump.
“Just look at you,” she gushes, “You’re so cute, with your fat little baby belly.”
James smiles, but his mind is whirring, inadvertently taking what Karen says in the worst possible way. He doesn’t like her using the word “fat”, because that’s how he feels, and he doesn’t want to be reminded. He eventually manages to leave his conversation with her, with a kiss to her cheek and what they have playfully dubbed their Secret Scottish High Five. He moves awkwardly through the crowded rooms, looking for Michael, unable to find him. He freezes when he hears his name, being said by voices he doesn’t recognise, and pauses behind the door to listen.
“James McAvoy? Yes, I saw him. Looks ridiculous of course.”
“I know. He really doesn’t help himself. He didn’t even try to get back in shape after the first kid, and he’s looked a bit weird since then, really.’
A woman laughs.
“I know! I mean, I know Michael Fassbender had one too- each to their own, whatever- but at least he worked to get his body back, you know?”
“See, I’ve been thinking about this,” another voice says, “I’m not sure that Fassbender wanted that child. Or the first one, poor things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just think about it. Why would any man in Michael Fassbender’s position at that time settle down? He’d just won the Oscar for Shame. His career was really just taking off, and he had become incredibly popular. He could have anyone he wanted! Maybe he was looking to end his little fling with McAvoy. Next thing you know, he’s got a baby on the way and he’s engaged. It just seemed… Too calculated. It seemed almost out of character for him.”
“I don’t know. He really seems to dote on them. The little boy especially.”
“Well, of course he does. They’re his children, he can’t blame them for his being trapped by McAvoy.”
James can’t stand to hear anymore. He turns away with tears in his eyes, and after some searching, finds the door out onto the roof terrace. He sits down on the lawn chair that is there, rubbing circles on his belly, as he’s subconsciously taken to doing when he’s stressed or upset. He runs his hand along his jaw, despairing at the gentle roundness of his face that he can’t ignore and can’t stop himself from disliking. He stares out at the setting sun, sniffing with trying to hold back tears.
Eventually, Michael finds him. He sits down next to him and puts his coat around James’ shoulders. James hadn’t realised how cold he felt.
“Are you okay?” Michael asks quietly.
“No.” James replies.
“Do you wanna go home?”
“Yes please.” James whispers. With that, he leans his head against Michael’s shoulder and cries. Michael puts an arm around him, pulling him close.
* * *
James thinks it’s happening more and more often. A lot of the time he feels like he’s trapped at home, having to look after Sara and Joshua on his own, and when he calls Michael’s mobile, it’s engaged: but then Michael will come home, and be wonderful and lovely and helpful, and James feels guilty for having ever been frustrated or angry that he wasn’t there.
And yet, he can’t help but worry. Because whenever Michael comes home late, it was because he was talking with Jude, was out for a drink with Jude. And suddenly there are pictures in the press of Michael and Jude together, and calling the characters in their film The Hottest New Bromance, and James starts spending too much time looking at photos of Jude, at his chiseled jaw line and flat stomach and slim hips, and it makes him want to cry. Sometimes, when the children are in bed and he’s alone downstairs, he does.
James watches from the edge of the set, rubbing his hands together, partly from the cold, partly from anxiety. His eyes linger on Michael and Jude as they chat, looking a bit too close to one another, and every time Michael laughs something hurts in the centre of James’ chest. He remembers being on set and on the press tours with Michael, when that laugh was reserved for him. But things were different then, James thinks. He runs one hand over the bump. He was younger then, slimmer, sexier and more exciting to Michael. Now he feels he’s a taste that Michael has grown accustomed to, domestic and plain and boring. Jude is new and exciting and exotic, and looks so good. Jude and Michael are sharing smiles and laughter again. It’s at this moment that James thinks that he knows. He bites his lip, cocking his head and trying hard not to cry.
They stay deep in conversation for what seems like such a long time, until James can’t look anymore; so he covers his face loosely with one hand, ashamed of it, and turns away.
* * *
Michael is starting to get concerned. James has been incredibly distant lately; has retreated into himself, seems a lot more tearful than usual, is off his food and barely talks to Michael when he’s home from filming. At first Michael assumes it’s just hormones, but this isn’t like when James was pregnant with Sara: back then, there were ups as well as downs. Now it just seems like James is unhappy and angry all of the time, and it’s starting to unsettle Michael so much that one night he sits James down on the sofa in the living room, sits in the arm chair opposite him, and asks him to tell him what’s wrong.
“Oh, like you don’t know,” James scoffs angrily.
“That’s just it,” Michael says in frustration, “I don’t know.”
James looks at him, and his eyes glint with anger, but there’s such sadness underneath.
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?!”
“Fine!” James snaps, and then babbles, “I understand what’s happening between you and Jude, and I- I don’t resent you if you want to divorce me.”
There is a long, long silence, whilst the impact of James’ words hits.
“James,” Michael says quietly, “What did you just say?”
“I- I said,” James stammers, frustrated at being made to repeat it, already teary-eyed, “I said that I understand the- whatever’s happening between you and J-Jude. And that I don’t resent you if… if you want to di- divorce me.”
“W-what? Is that what you think?” Michael asks. He sounds almost empty. James stares at him, hold his gaze for a moment, and then bursts into tears. Michael rushes to him, kneeling in front of him and taking hold of his hands.
“James, James, please, don’t cry,”
“But I love you,” James chokes. Michael tightens his grip.
“And I love you too,” Michael tells him earnestly, “James, what on Earth makes you think that I’d want to leave you?”
“But- Jude-” James says disjointedly between his tears. Michael shakes his head vigorously.
“I don’t understand. Jude Law? I don’t give a fuck about Jude Law beyond asking him if he had a good day. James, c’mon now,” he puts a hand under James’ chin to lift his bent head, “Do you… do you think that I’m cheating on you?” Michael is struggling to keep the hurt out of his voice, but he isn’t sure he’s succeeding. Doesn’t James know that he loves him? He went through agony to have James’ child, which isn’t something you do for fun, or because you feel like it. He has post-natal depression and an eating disorder under his belt of mental afflictions, he isn’t about to throw away everything with James for an affair with a random co-star: he had hoped that James would know that.
“Well, why wouldn’t you?” James says hysterically, gesturing at himself, “Look at me.”
“James-“
“I’m huge,” he cries, “I’m a fucking whale.”
“You are pregnant,” Michael says desperately.
“Even when I wasn’t pregnant, I was bigger than Jude Law. So much bigger than you.’
“You need to stop saying stuff like this,” Michael murmurs, “It’s such an unhealthy way of looking at us. I can’t deny that my body is different to yours. Why does that make you any less beautiful? What am I supposed to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” James sobs, in hysterics now, “I just love you so much, and I don’t deserve you- and I’m so ugly and fat-“
“I love you,” Michael says forcefully, interrupting, his own eyes filling with tears, “I love you and you’re perfect and I’m staying with you, you complete and utter fool.”
“Sorry,” James gasps. Michael just throws himself around him and grips him tight.
* * *
To be continued.