Absolutely [RPF] (PG-13)
Title: Absolutely (Adverbs 3/3) [RPF]
Rating: PG-13, if that, even, for some emotional content.
Word Count: 7,835
Spoilers: You can’t spoil what doesn’t exist, and these versions live only in my brain, which is pretty spoiled on its own.
Warnings: None, but I feel compelled to once again state that this is RPF, and if that’s not your thing, you should really just move along.
Summary: Conclusion of what I've dubbed the "Adverbs" 'verse, because I love Daniel Handler a little bit too much.
“Little help, please? Can you at least try to lift it a little? I think I’m running out of oxygen.” The corner of a leather sofa is wedged directly beneath my windpipe, and it’s making it a little hard to breathe. My only other option is to set it down, but that would leave me with a rather large piece of furniture on my right foot, so I’m doing my best to suck it up for the time being. I shuffle a little, trying to make it slightly less uncomfortable, and give a glance at my wristwatch. It’s seven forty-six in the morning, February fifth, two thousand twelve, and this really isn’t how I’d pictured spending my twenty-fifth birthday.
“Can it, bro, I’m doing the best I can,” Chuck mutters as he attempts to haul it up the last remaining stairs. “You’d think moving into a place like this would mean you could afford to pay someone to move your shit, wouldn’t you?”
I give the sofa a shove and try not to be too happy when he stumbles backward a little. “I told you. We did hire movers, they just didn’t get everything and refused to work late, even though we offered to pay them extra. This is the last of it, and it’d be nice if you’d just let me know whether you want to get this done and over with, or do you just want to drag it out a little longer?” Chuck grunts a little and rolls his eyes at me as he gives a jerk on the opposite side of the sofa and manages to finally bring its legs to the landing that connects the emergency stairs with Chris’s new condo.
”Our new condo,” I have to correct myself. It’s true that I didn’t even know Chris was buying it until everything was more or less done, but still - it’s home. We made every decision together, from what colors to paint the walls (deep blue in the bedroom, brick red in the dining room, black, strangely enough, in the hall bathroom) to what finish we wanted on the floors, and everything that needed purchasing was the matter of much debate. Everything, that is, except for the fridge. The one in my last apartment had never worked right, and even though I easily clocked more hours at Chris’s apartment than mine last year, I was always very much aware that it was his place, and I tried to act accordingly. That meant not leaving anything more personal than a toothbrush, and always doing laundry in my building’s basement, even though his place had a perfectly good set of machines in a hall closet.
Now? Our clothes share opposite sides of the same walk-in closet. My framed posters from the productions I did at UM hang in the hallway alongside plaques from Chris’s days in speech and debate. The fuzzy blue rug I bought for my first dorm room sits in front of a loveseat in the room we’ve made into a joint office/studio. Family portraits hang above the living room fireplace on either side of a shot of me kissing him at his twenty-first birthday party just seconds after I’d drunkenly announced I was his. The mortgage may be in his name, but there’s no question that this is every bit my home, too, and I have a feeling it’s going to feel good to put down some roots here.
Roots, and sofas, once I manage to shove my end of it up the stairs to meet the rest of it, Chuck doing his best to help guide it through the metal door that leads to our new utility room. From there, it’s easy work, and it only takes a few minutes to get it down the hall and into the living room. “Thanks, man, can I get you guys anything?”
“Beer me,” Chuck says, and I give him a look.
“Dude, it’s not even eight o’clock yet. Can’t you wait until at least noon?”
Chuck gives a laugh and flops into the corner of the sofa. “Says the guy who used it being his birthday to guilt me into helping him move, even though he won’t technically be a year older until almost eleven at night.”
“You know, sometimes you play that brother card a little too close,” I call over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen and grab a couple of bottles of Guinness from the (beautiful, lovely, absolutely magnificent) fridge. “Compromise. Guinness is practically bread, so we might be able to consider this breakfast.” I grab a seat on the opposite side of the couch and Chuck cracks open both bottles before we clink them together in cheers.
“I can live with that,” Chuck says between drinks as he looks around the room. “It’s a nice place. Little too nice for my kid brother, but if you can’t get away with the glamorous life of the starving artist anymore, at least you can be comfortable.” His tone is mocking, but the glint in his eyes lets me know he’s happy for me, and I raise my bottle to clink against his one more time before he cranes his neck down the hallway. “Where is Chris, anyway?”
“Early morning meeting with his agent. Only time both were available for the next two weeks. Well, now, or about twelve hours from now, which would have made our dinner plans kind of hard.”
Chuck knocks the last of his beer down his throat and swallows. “Dude, you’re turning twenty-five and your big celebration consists of dinner plans? What happened to you, man?”
I get up from the couch and give a shrug as I look around the room. “I’m not a kid anymore, Chuck. I have a job.”
“It’s more than that,” he says, and he gives me that ’I’m the big brother so I have all the answers’ look that’s always driven me nuts. “I guess I just don’t understand this whole thing, you know? One minute, you’re out there hanging your shingle anyplace that’ll have you, playing your own stuff and making a real go of it. Now, you’re spending all this time singing other people’s songs, saying other people’s words, and - “
“Living someone else’s life?” I cross my arms against my chest and lean against the wall opposite him. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”
“Well…yeah,” he says, a look of defeat on his face. “I mean, is this who you really think you are?”
I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say; I just know it wasn’t this. “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”
“Dude, you’ve become some little domestic robot. You’re picking out paint swatches and matching bedding and freaking appliances, and this isn’t even your place. It’s his.”
“Yeah, his name’s the one on the mortgage, but it’s still my home. Why shouldn’t I take the time to make it someplace I’ll enjoy?”
“Darren,” Chuck shakes his head and bores his eyes into mine. “What’s the longest relationship you’ve ever had?”
“Two years, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do,” he pats the seat beside him and against my better judgment, I return to the sofa. “That’s why I’m so unsure about all of this. You’ve been with this guy less than a year, and you’re putting all this time and effort into building this life that you don’t even know will be here when the year runs out. It just doesn’t make sense, is all.”
“How,” I ask him with an eyebrow raised, “am I supposed to build a life with someone if I keep waiting for it to exist before I start?”
“I know, I know, I just…are you sure you want it to be with Chris? It’s not that I don’t like him, you know I think he’s great. It’s just that I don’t want you to get caught up on something that might turn out to be a phase or something.”
There it is, the elephant in the room that we’ve both been dancing around since the news about Chris and I broke. He’s always acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but there’s still been this undercurrent of suspicion to the way he’s talked about it that’s set my teeth on edge. “If you’ve got a problem with this, you didn’t have to help,” I tell him. “I’m sure Brian or Cory or someone would have been able to lend a hand.”
“That’s not what I said, and you know it.”
“Then tell me, Chuck, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want you to make sure you’re not opening yourself up too much, too soon, for something that isn’t like you. I don’t want you to wake up one morning and feel like you’re trapped in something that doesn’t fit, but you can’t leave because you’ve...bought furniture together, or something.” He’s clearly exasperated, and so am I, but we’re also both stubborn enough to know that we’re not understanding each other well enough to reach compromise, so we should really just let it go.
But I don’t. Because really, what fun would that be?
“I pursued him, Chuck. Did you know that? It was my idea to let people know, because I was the one who couldn’t stand hiding how he made me feel. Can you imagine if you’d had to keep Meghan a secret? How much it would hurt if people asked you about her, and you had to pretend she was just your friend or, even worse, her co-worker?” He’s shifting a little in his seat, and if he’s not starting to get it, he’s at least starting to get that I know what I’m doing. Well, as much as I think anyone can know about something like this.
He puts a hand on my knee and gives it a shake. “So, you’re really gay now?”
“Nope,” I grin at him. “I still get knocked out by a great rack just as much as I ever have.”
“Then don’t you miss them? Boobs, I mean?” He takes a deep sigh and shakes his head dramatically toward the sky. “Boobs…what can’t they do?”
He ducks his head as I throw a pillow at him, and the mood is instantly lifted. “Compare to him,” I shrug. “Nothing really does. That’s why I’m here, and it’s why I don’t intend to leave.”
“You really love this guy, don’t you?” The usual sarcasm is gone from his voice, and he’s looking at me with new eyes.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, looking around the room “and if it seems like I’m enjoying the domesticity a little too much,” I shrug. “Well, maybe I am. It’s nice, having someone to come home to. Building something that feels like it means something. I can’t guarantee that it won’t all blow up in my face at some point, or what’ll happen if it does, but I do know that I’m really enjoying the ride as long as it lasts.”
-------
It's ten thirty-seven on Thursday, December 19th of two thousand thirteen, and I'm drinking a cup of coffee as I check my e-mail when I hear the familiar sound of Chris's key jingling in the lock.
"Hey! I managed to get an earlier fight home and thought I'd surprise you." Chris wheels his suitcase into the hall and leaves it there before he joins me at the bar that divides the kitchen and living room. He plants a quick kiss on my cheek and steals a sip of my coffee before pulling a face. "Three years really should be long enough to remember that you like your coffee to resemble sludge, but I never seem to learn, do I?"
"Nope," I say, tilting my head back to give him a kiss. "It's okay, though. Helps keep things fresh." Chris takes a seat beside me and helps himself to a bite from my bagel. "How'd you sleep?" I already know the answer before I ask, but even after all this time, it feels strange to talk about it without him offering something, first.
"Ugh, horribly. I never sleep right when you're not around," he takes another bite and chews thoughtfully as he leans into me and I slip my arm around him, resting my hand on his chest. "Your chest has magical sleeping properties. Or something," he mutters, half to himself. "That's why, as much as I'd love to say I'm going to ravish you as soon as you're done eating, I really think I'd rather take a nap."
"It's okay, Chris. There's plenty of time for all manner of bed-related activity. It's one of the upshots of living together."
"That's true," he says absentmindedly. "That, and having someone else to take out the trash.
"Exactly," I grin, and take another sip of my coffee. "Oh, hey, before I forget;" I point to a small stack of packages sitting at the end of the bar, "it looks like you were kind of busy."
Chris slumps a little and puts his head in his hands. "Not again." He looks up and catches my eye. "Any idea what I got this time?"
I shake my head. "Nope. Credit card statement hasn't come in yet, and you know I never open anything not explicitly addressed to me - especially not this close to Christmas."
"I got your present before I left," he says "I had it sent to my agent's office, just to be safe. Whatever these are, your guess is as good as mine." He gives them a once-over and raises an eyebrow at me. "Want to pretend Christmas came early? There's always a chance at least one of them will be interesting."
I swallow the last of my bagel and give a nod. "Sure thing. Let's have at it." We take turns opening the boxes, and reactions range from "Dude, sweet" (for a new set of sai swords in a dark brushed metal finish) to "what the heck?"(for an enormous sweater featuring a giant, fuzzy poodle embroidered into the front), with a lot of more subdued reactions to things like books, movies, and assorted knick knacks. I've just pulled the sweater on over my t-shirt and Chris has just started playing with one of his swords when I notice one more package waiting to be opened. "Looks like we missed one. I opened the last one, so I think you get the honors."
Chris almost drops his sword, but makes a save as he turns to give the box a look. "Huh...that's strange. There were ten packages, but there really shouldn't have been enough time for more than nine to arrive by now. I mean, I don't usually buy more than one thing a night."
"Maybe one of them came from someplace nearby?" I lean forward and give the address a look. It doesn't really offer any clues, but the postmark in the upper corner does. "Huh...you ordered this one overnight delivery." I wiggle my eyebrows at him and give a grin. "Your subconscious must have been really excited about whatever it is."
Frowning, Chris reaches for it and begins to pull at the package’s wrapping. “That’s a bit of a first,” he mutters “wonder what I was in such a rush for.” The box inside is about the same size as a pound of butter, and when he lifts its cardboard lid, a strange look overtakes him. “Oh…” he breathes to himself, the fingers of his other hand lightly tracing what’s inside. Behind the lid, he fumbles with the contents and leans down to peer at them intently. “This…this is a new one,” he says in a hush as his eyes flick from the box to me and back again.
“Don’t keep me hanging, Chris. What is it?” I’m leaning forward to try and get a glimpse when he shields the box with his hands and takes a step back.
“I’m not sure I should show you.” His voice is small, but resolved, and all the color in his face has flowed to his cheeks. His eyes are wide and questioning, and it’s all I can do to not wrap him in my arms and tell him that whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing to be upset over, but something tells me that’s not the right course to take.
“What do you mean, it’s a new one? Like, a replacement for something you’ve already got?”
He shakes his head and just stares at it, transfixed. “I mean…I actually thought about this when I was awake. Considered it, but chickened out.” He gives a nervous laugh, “I guess part of me really wanted to get them, after all…” My curiosity’s getting the better of me, and I’m just about to get out of my seat when he motions for me to stay where I am. “Stop. Just…stay there, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, mainly because I don’t know what else to do. Chris can be a little high strung about his shopping tendencies, but I’ve long since learned to just let him take care of things on his own and follow his lead.
He just stands there, staring intently at the box and taking a series of deep breaths. He stays like that for at least five full minutes before lifting his eyes to mine. “Darren?” I nod, just enough to let him know I’m following whatever he’s going to say, but not speaking for fear of him stopping again. “When all of this -“ and at this, he gestures around the condo we’ve called home for most of the last two years “first started happening about three years ago, I really didn’t know what we were getting into. I just knew that you were this incredibly amazing, talented, painfully adorable and hot guy who for whatever reason, wanted to be with me, and I just felt more right, more real when you were around. I didn’t expect it to get here, and to be honest, I’m still kind of surprised that you haven’t broken my heart yet.”
I tilt my head and reach a hand out to stroke his hip. “You and me both, Chris. We haven’t always known how to navigate things, but I’ve enjoyed every stumble we’ve had while trying to figure it out, and I look forward to a lot more of them.”
“You do?” Chris’ eyes are big and almost look wet as he places one of his hands on the one I’ve got on his hip. I nod, and he takes another breath. “Really?” His voice is barely audible as I nod again, massaging his hipbone with my thumb until he breaks away and takes on a half sitting, half squatting position on the floor as he fumbles with the box’s contents. “Darren…I love you, and it’s scared me at times. You’re the only guy I’ve ever really been with, and part of me thinks it can’t last, that meeting you when I was still so young means I’m destined to lose you at some point. That something that feels so right and so perfect can’t possibly last,” and at this, his shifts forward so he’s on one knee, his other leg tucked beneath him “but I want it to.” With shaking fingers, he places the lid of the cardboard box on the floor beside him. There, nestled in a larger box, are two small velvet boxes, one of them flipped open to reveal a simple man’s ring with two small diamonds nestled side by side in its center.
“Tell me that I’m wrong, Darren? Tell me this doesn’t have to end?”
I practically fall off my stool in my rush to join him on the floor. I fall into his mouth, kissing him and running my fingers through his hair as he writhes beneath me, feeling his breath come hard and fast in his chest. Eyelids, cheeks, forehead, neck - I kiss him everywhere I can, until I feel something pointy poking me in the shoulder. Raising myself on my forearms, I look to see Chris pressing the box against me with a strangely calm expression on his face.
“Can I take that as a yes?”
“Absolutely,” I say, as we melt into each other, lost in thoughts of love and dreams that sometimes, do come true.
-------------
The clock hanging from the wall reads four eleven, and Chuck is straightening my tie. Or trying to, since I’m bouncing up and down on my heels a little too hard and fast for him to get a good enough look to make sure it’s right. “Will you just stand still a second?” He asks through gritted teeth as he pricks his finger on my tiepin.
“Sorry, man,” I respond with a small laugh. “Just nervous. Excited. Happy. Anxious.”
He gives me a smile and picks up the boutonniere resting on the table just to my left. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s going to be fine.” He raises an eyebrow and flashes a grin at me. “Actually, that’s a total lie. Something will go catastrophically wrong, possibly multiple somethings; and you’ll probably have about half a dozen panic attacks before the day is done, but -“ and at this, he slides the pin through the lapel of my jacket and into the ribbon wrapped around the flower’s base “once a little bit of time passes, those will be the moments you laugh over the most, and the ones that bring the day into focus. Trust me,” he says, giving me a pat on the arm “I know what I’m talking about here.”
His eyes are shining, and I know he’s thinking of the way that the caterer’s truck broke down on the way to his own wedding a year and a half ago, with the cake still inside it. Meghan had cried her eyes out for a good half hour when she got the news, only calming down once Chris burst into the room to inform her that not only had he arranged for the hotel’s restaurant to shut down for the afternoon in order to handle replacing the food, he’d also just bought every yellow and or ivory iced cupcake from every bakery within thirty miles, and they were all due to arrive at the venue for setup within the hour. “What good is having a name people respond to, and the wallet to go with it,” he’d shrugged as she wrapped her arms around him, “if you can’t put them both to a good cause every now and then?”
“Thanks, Chuck.” I say as I give him a hug. “It’s reminding me of stuff like that that reminds me why you’re not just my brother, but my best friend.”
“Nah,” he says, rocking back on his heels and giving me a sly look. “He is, and that’s how it should be.” He bites his lip and looks around, almost as if he’s checking that no one else is around, and then he’s wrapped his arms around me in the kind of bear hug I never get from my sarcastic, non-affectionate older brother. “I love you man, and I’m really, really happy for you,” he says, before stepping back and flashing his eyes at the clock. “Five minutes left as a single man, kid. Last chance to change your mind.”
“Not a chance,” I say, and he gives a small dance as he opens the door that leads to the outer porch of the dining room where I’ve been getting ready.
Today is September twentieth, two thousand fourteen. Four years ago today, I met a person who turned my world and everything in it completely upside down. Today, I’m going to marry him.
Sometimes, my life is really awesome.
-----------
We’ve opted for something simple, just our closest friends and family, in an apple orchard roughly halfway between Clovis and San Francisco. We’d first seen the place years ago, while driving from his parents’ house to mine, and something about the quiet, old-fashioned sweetness of it just stuck. We’ve come to the adjacent bed and breakfast a handful of times over the years, and when it came to decide where to make things official, it was the only place we really considered. It’s how most of the planning was decided, really. The date was decided because we liked the significance, and it was one of the only times that was good for both of us. The food, because there were only so many things we could think of that most of our loved ones would be willing to eat. The officiant because…well, because Chris had insisted on that.
“How dead set on this are you?” I’d asked him, dreading his response.
“More than you could possibly imagine,” had been his reply. “Look, I know you two haven’t always gotten along that well, but he’s come around, and it’s important to me that he play a part. Since it’d be kind of ridiculous to make him the ring bearer, I really think it’s the best possible solution.” I’d protested, of course, but he was firm, and there are few things more unyielding than Chris when he sets his mind on something.
Which is how I’ve come to stand before sixty of the most important people in my world as I married my best friend - with Ryan freaking Murphy calling the shots. He beams at Chris like a proud father gazing at his favorite child (which really, he may as well be), and even manages to look at me with an expression approaching what some might call “warmth” once or twice. As Chris and I slide the matching titanium rings on each other’s fingers, I feel a rush of energy surge through me at the thought that this is really happening, and he’s really mine, and somewhere along the way, I really, really lucked out.
I’d wonder if I wasn’t maybe Gandhi in a past life or something, but I’ve read that he was actually kind of a dick in person, so I do my best to just be glad that I’m me. Somehow, as Chris’s lips melt into mine and our fingers trace the lines of each others' faces, it’s not that hard to do.
---------
It’s nine seventeen at night, December fifth, two thousand and twenty, and I’m sitting in the front row of a crowded theater, lights and cameras positioned all around me, when Chris takes the stage and accepts a large award statue from a pair of smiling men in their fifties.
“Hi, uhm, wow. ’Man of the Year,’ huh? This is a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Is it okay if I put this down? Yeah? Okay.” Chris places the crystal statue on the podium and gives his head a little shake. “Sorry, uh, I didn’t write a speech, though I’m kind of thinking now that I should have, but I wanted this to be as real as possible, and I’m willing to forget someone in the name of being as honest as possible, because honesty is so, so important when we’re talking about something like this, and I’d like to think anyone I might forget would forgive me in the name of getting that right.
“Twelve years ago, I had the amazing honor of being cast on a little show called ’Glee’, and at the time, all I could think was ‘thank God, I’m finally getting out of Clovis.’ Today, I look back at that younger version of myself, and I feel ashamed. Not because I was so happy to get out, but because I never thought I could do anything to make it better while I was there.” Chris swallows thickly, and I can tell that he’s almost on the verge of tears, though he’s still far enough away to keep them in for now. “I’m very proud to say that I eventually changed that. The Clovis Center for Queer Youth is now in its fifth year of operation, just three blocks from where I grew up. We’ve got a fantastic outreach program, resources for education and counseling, and an unbelievable assisted living program for those whose parents weren’t as understanding as my own.
“It would be really easy for me to stand here and say that this is my gift to my community, but that would be a lie. The truth is, it’s one of the most selfish things I’ve ever done in my life, because I wish so badly that something like it had existed when I was young enough to need it, but not old enough to know I could take it on for myself. This center is not just a gift to my hometown and the people there who need it, it’s a gift to my younger self. Something concrete that he could have looked at and really been able to understand that ’it gets better’ is more than a catchphrase; it’s the truth.”
At this, Chris finds me in the front row, and motions for me to join him. I rise from my seat and begin to make my way up the stairs leading to the stage, and I can barely hear my own thoughts over the roar of applause that’s filling the theater, but eventually the tech guys have flashed the lights that let everyone know they need to quiet down, and he begins to speak just as my hand reaches his.
“Ten years ago, I watched from the audience as the most amazing man I’ve ever had the honor of knowing opened this show with a song he’d written while in college. Today, I’m proud to call him my husband.” He grips my hand tightly, and I can’t help but wrap my free arm around him in a tight hug before he kisses my cheek and looks directly into my eyes as he wraps up his speech. “If a speech and debate geek like me can go from hanging with the lunch ladies to living this life with this man, then anything must be possible, and I just want the world to know that.”
“So, whether you’re watching this alone in your room because you’re afraid of someone catching you, or you’re lucky enough to be watching this with someone you love, just know that it can, and it does get better, and it gets better every single day; if you’re just able to get through each day as it comes,” and at this, he hefts the statue up from the podium and holds it above his head, “so this is for the people who helped, and continue to help me make it better. This is for my family, who knew long before I told them, and never made me feel anything but loved. It’s for my mentor, Ryan Murphy, who saw something in me that made him take a chance. It’s for my husband, Darren, because even when we’re apart, I know I’m not alone. Most of all, though,” he bites his lower lip and gives me that look that breaks my heart every time I see it “it’s for everyone who hasn’t been as lucky as I have; with the hope that someday, they will be. Thank you. Thank you, each and every one of you.”
The applause is deafening as we exchange a quick kiss and walk off stage, hand in hand. I’m still clinging to him, my head swimming with pride at having him by my side, when Andrea, our manager, comes running up to us with a face full of what can only be described as panic. Her eyes dart from mine to his and back and forth about half a dozen times before she manages to say anything, but I think we both know what she’s going to say before she makes a sound.
“Portland. Complications. NOW.”
I feel Chris’s hand grip harder around mine as the color drains from his face. “Did they say anything?” His voice, so sure and strong just seconds ago, is weak and full of tremble as he asks this, and when Andrea gives her head a slow and steady shake to signal “no,” I can feel him go somewhat limp against me.
“Come on,” I say with more certainty and bravery than I feel, “I think they’ll understand if we miss the reception, given the circumstances.” I take the statue from Chris and hand it to Andrea, who gives us each as tight a hug as she can manage without dropping it before I pull Chris through the service entrance, onto the street, and into the first cab that comes our way.
“LAX,” I tell the driver “and there’s a very, very generous tip if you can get us there in under half an hour.” He raises an eyebrow in the rearview mirror, but somehow seems to understand that it’s not the time for sarcasm, and as he pulls into traffic, I take out my phone and begin calling every airline I can think of, until I find one that’s still got two seats on a flight to Portland, leaving in eighty-six minutes.
---
It’s two oh three a.m., December sixth, and I don’t think either of us has been so scared in all of our lives.
We’d barely reached the airport in time to pass through security before our plane left, and when we did get to the plane, both nearly collapsed when we were told our seats were on opposite sides of the plane. I should have known that’d be the case, I really should have, but in all of the chaos and the fear, I hadn’t really had time to think about much more than just trying to get from point a to point b. Both of us were just such a mess of nerves and fear that I’m still surprised I didn’t bite the head off of the girl who tapped me on the shoulder as we waited to board.
“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t bother you, but did you say you’re in twenty-six A?” I gave her a small nod, rubbing Chris’s arms as he bit his nails. “I - I’m in twenty-six B, and I’ll switch seats if they let me.” Chris was the first to respond, by taking her in his arms and breathing words of thanks into her ear as I gave the woman working the counter a look, and she nodded as if to let me know it’s okay. “I’m Rebecca,” the girl said, offering me her hand “and whatever’s wrong, I hope it turns out alright.”
Whether it turns out alright remains to be seen, because Alina isn’t doing so good. She wasn’t supposed to be due for two more weeks, and they’re saying the baby’s coming a lot faster than it should. Chris and I, both usually so full of chatter, have been almost completely silent since we got on the plane. It’s as if anything we say will only make the horror of the situation more real, and as long as we don’t talk about it, there’s still a chance things will be okay. I know we must look ridiculous sitting there in the hallway of the maternity ward in our rumpled tuxedos, but it really doesn’t seem to matter much right now. Right now, all that matters is that Alina gets through this okay, and the baby makes it out safely.
More than once, I think to myself how thankful I am that I didn’t end up with a wife, because I’m having a hard enough time just trying not to fall apart at this, and I don’t even want to think of how I’d feel if it were Chris in there.
More than once, I feel like a giant ass.
Alina. We’d known she was the one the moment we’d met her at the agency just over a year ago. The way her smile filled her whole face, the way she’d been so quick to joke with us, the way she explained that her own parents hadn’t been able to have children, and she’d always wanted to find a way to symbolically pay back the woman who’d brought her into the world so that she could have the best parents ever, made it clear she was the right choice to serve as our surrogate. There had been some awkward moments, like meeting her husband and two kids before her first ultrasound appointment, but for the most part, it had been smooth sailing until her water broke that evening.
We stare at the clock for hours. Three ten. Three thirty-one. Four sixteen. Four forty-nine. Five five. We see each minute click into the next, because it feels like the only thing we can do.
It’s Five twenty-three when we hear a sharp cry break through the silence, and a nurse finally steps out of Alina’s birthing room. “Would you like to meet your daughter?”
My hands clench around Chris’s as I choke the words out of my throat. “Is everyone-?” She nods happily, and it’s only once I realize that she wouldn’t be acting this way if anything were wrong that I’m able to get up from the chair and follow Chris into the room. The light is low, but the atmosphere is far more relaxed than it had been when we’d first arrived, and when I see Alina propped against a stack of pillows with a tired smile on her face, I know everything’s going to be just fine.
“I may be biased, but I think she may be my finest work,” she breathes happily as we sit on either side of her and stare at the tiny pink bundle in her arms. She’s got enormous silvery eyes and a thick shock of curly black hair, and she looks so much like a miniature version of the woman holding her that I can’t help but feel a pain in my heart to think they’ll never see each other again. “Hey,” Alina says, poking me with her finger “none of that maudlin look, you hear? This may be the last moment of peace and quiet either of you has for the rest of your lives, so you’d better enjoy it while it lasts.” She turns to look at Chris, and offers the baby to him. “Do you want to hold your daughter?”
“Daughter,” he breathes, looking into my eyes for the first time since we left the theater “we have a daughter.” He takes her into his arms and cradles her softly, using a finger to trace the details of her face. “She’s so perfect, Darren. Have you ever seen anything so perfect?”
“Yeah,” I whisper as I take in the image of the man I love holding our newborn child. “Once or twice.”
-----
It’s one twenty-four a.m., December ninth, and she won’t stop crying. I’ve sung every Disney song I can think of, but nothing seems to calm her down. I’m walking her around the house for what feels like the thousandth time that night when Chris comes through the door and makes a beeline for us.
“Shh, shh, shh…it’s okay, Becks. Don’t cry, sweet one.” His voice is soft and reassuring as he takes her from my arms and curls into the glider beside the fire. A twinkle shines in his eye as he covers her tiny face with kisses and begins to sing in that crazy deep voice of his that he almost never uses. It’s less Judy Garland, and more Paul Robeson as the words escape his mouth. “Old man river, that old man river. He must know something, but he don’t say nothing, he just keeps rolling…he keeps on rolling along.”
Not five minutes later, she’s out, squirming peacefully in his arms. We’d each provided samples when we were working with Alina, but we’d vowed to never test for paternity unless it looked like a medically valid concern. That way, we’d decided, there’d never be an issue of her being more one of ours than the others. The thing is, though, that I don’t need a doctor to confirm what I’ve known since the moment I saw her. She’s only a few days old, but she’s got Chris written all over her. From the paleness of her skin, to those enormous silvery blue eyes that I just know are going to cause a world of grief once she’s old enough to know what they’re capable of, to the roses of her cheeks, everything about her points to him.
What surprises me about this, though, is how easy it makes it for me to love her. To feel like she’s mine. Chris and I couldn’t create her on our own, but I still have a piece of him to hold when he’s away. A tiny version to watch grow and learn, with knees that I’ll kiss when they get skinned, and teeth that I’ll replace with small gifts once they begin to fall out, and somehow, I know every one of those moments will mean the world to me, because I’ll be seeing him in all of them.
----------
It’s Saturday, June seventeenth, two thousand forty-five, and I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in my life. Her hair falls over her shoulders in a cascade of black curls, and her large silvery-blue eyes shine brightly against her pale skin. She couldn’t be more than five and a half feet, even in the absurdly high heels she’s wearing, but there’s something about her that commands the attention of everyone who sees her, and I’m not just saying that because I love her with all of my heart.
I give a small knock on the door, and she turns to face me, her face overtaken by the enormous smile that has always been my downfall. “Pops!” She shouts as she runs across the room, almost tripping over the hem of her dress. “I didn’t think you were here yet.”
I wrap my arms around her, lifting her slightly off the floor. “Just got here. Daddy’s just parking the car. He’ll be here any minute.” As if on cue, I feel the familiar touch of Chris’s arm wrapping around my waist, his other arm sliding around hers.
“Oh, Becks,” he sighs as he takes in the full sight of her “I know I’m not the most unbiased person in the world, but you look absolutely breathtaking.”
She flashes us a smile as the pulls away just enough to give a little spin. “It is kind of a fabulous dress, isn’t it? But remember - I’m going to be a married lady in just over an hour, so no more of this ‘Becks’ nonsense. It’s Rebecca from here on out.”
“Sure thing, Becks,” he teases, giving her a wink. “And the dress has nothing to do with it,” Chris says, twining his ring finger and pinky in with mine the way he used to when we’d first started seeing each other “it’s the girl wearing it that makes the picture.” He leans forward to give her a kiss on the cheek, and their matching silver eyes flash at each other as the tears filling them threaten to spill over.
The music’s volume grows louder, and the wedding coordinator’s giving us the signal that it’s time. Becks - Rebecca, excuse me, offers each of us one of her arms, and as we exit the ready room and begin the long walk up the aisle toward that lucky bastard who’s taking our little girl away, I find myself reflecting on thirty-five years worth of memories. Of red vines and wasabi and teenage dreams - adult ones, too - and every single step that helped to carry us on our path. This “really great detour through the mountains,” as I’d once called it, that ended up turning into the journey of a lifetime, and every step that brought us here, seems almost too perfect to be real.
----
It’s ten twenty-four, and Chris and I are dancing alongside our daughter and her new husband, Justin. ”Son-in-law”, I think to myself. ”I’ve got a son-in-law now.” He’s a decent enough guy, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d ever really think anyone was good enough for her. I’ve always been the one to spoil her; to try and fight her battles; to see only the good in her and try to excuse the bad. Chris, always the more grounded of us, was the strict one, the disciplinarian. He’s the one who could always figure out the right way to point out her unacceptable behavior, her flaws in logic, her every failing, without making her feel like she was failing us.
It took me years to understand it (and to be honest, I think it might have gotten through to Becks first), but he did those things so that she’d learn to fight in a constructive way. So that she’d be able to see when she was in the wrong before anyone else could, and so that she’d always be able to take care of herself. He had his perceived failings pointed out to him every day by people who couldn’t care less, and it made him the person he is. By doing the same for her, but always with a sheen of love, he was able to teach her the lessons he knew best would serve her well.
They’re lessons I still think I might need to learn myself, on occasion.
He gives my hand a squeeze and whispers into my ear as the song comes to an end and another one begins. “Did you ever think, all those years ago, that this is where we’d end up?”
I do my best to stifle the laugh that builds in my throat. “No, not even remotely.”
He looks at me with those eyes that always make me lose sense of who I am, the same eyes that now shine in our daughter’s face, and asks me the question I know we’ve each asked ourselves over and over through the ups and downs of the years. “Would you do it all again, if you could?”
I look around at all everything surrounding us. At Rebecca, her head resting on Justin’s chest as he holds her with pride. At our parents, sitting and chatting away like old friends. At his sister, holding my brother’s first grandson in her arms. At decades worth of friends and loved ones. Mostly, though, I look up at him. His hair is tinged with silver, and the lines around that huge smile of his are starting to droop, but even though I see it, the only thing I notice is the eyes that have cried with me, the mouth that has laughed with me, and every story behind every line that’s marked his once perfectly smooth face. Tilting myself upward on the balls of my feet, I place a small kiss at the base of his ear and breathe in my reply.
“Absolutely.”
~a-beep-a-beep-a-beep-a-beep-that's all, folks!~
(and I really mean it this time!)
All credit/blame for this entire ‘verse belongs to blaqkheaven. She was the one who set the ball in motion when we were in a chat and she threw out the idea: ”I really want Darren to be Colfersexual and make speeches about how sexuality is fluid and it's okay to act if you find yours invalidated because it might just be the love of your life or some shit. But with HP references.” The fluidity of sexual and romantic attraction is a big thing to me, and though I’d never considered writing RPF before, the concept just appealed to me so much that I couldn’t let it go.
Of course, after the first part was finished and the requests for a sequel began to pop up, she had to mention the idea of Darren slowly moving into Chris’s place before either of them realized what was happening, and that was the seed that morphed into the second installment. What was funny, though, was that before she threw that idea out there, she also mused about Darren appearing at the Trevor Project benefit a decade down the road to enthuse about how much his participation had changed his life, and that set the gears in motion for the final chapter a few days before the second one took life.
I’m really not kidding when I say this entire story would never have existed if not for her. Well, her, and (unknowingly, at the time,) lexicon, for issuing this prompt during the recent one-sentence meme. It really helped to kick my ass in gear after being so frustrated with it for so long, and kind of created a monster, to be honest. (Seriously, over ten thousand words in two and a half days - that’s kind of insane.)
I guess maybe I ought to thank my stomach, too, since if it hadn't been feeling so awful the last few days, I would have spent them at work instead of writing. Maybe?
Finally, if you’re still reading at this point (and if you are, bless your heart, because you’re clearly a doll who may require some counseling), a tiny tidbit. Each piece of this story has had a different song associated with it in my head, and I may or may not have played each of them on a loop as I wrote certain bits and pieces. One of my very favorites kept running through my head for this one, so I’m sharing it here as a thanks for all the time you’ve spent reading, all the lovely comments, and all the joy that just writing this has brought. It is, in my head, the song they’re dancing to at Rebecca’s wedding. Because they were never, ever, being boring.
bestyearmortgages.com
Rating: PG-13, if that, even, for some emotional content.
Word Count: 7,835
Spoilers: You can’t spoil what doesn’t exist, and these versions live only in my brain, which is pretty spoiled on its own.
Warnings: None, but I feel compelled to once again state that this is RPF, and if that’s not your thing, you should really just move along.
Summary: Conclusion of what I've dubbed the "Adverbs" 'verse, because I love Daniel Handler a little bit too much.
“Little help, please? Can you at least try to lift it a little? I think I’m running out of oxygen.” The corner of a leather sofa is wedged directly beneath my windpipe, and it’s making it a little hard to breathe. My only other option is to set it down, but that would leave me with a rather large piece of furniture on my right foot, so I’m doing my best to suck it up for the time being. I shuffle a little, trying to make it slightly less uncomfortable, and give a glance at my wristwatch. It’s seven forty-six in the morning, February fifth, two thousand twelve, and this really isn’t how I’d pictured spending my twenty-fifth birthday.
“Can it, bro, I’m doing the best I can,” Chuck mutters as he attempts to haul it up the last remaining stairs. “You’d think moving into a place like this would mean you could afford to pay someone to move your shit, wouldn’t you?”
I give the sofa a shove and try not to be too happy when he stumbles backward a little. “I told you. We did hire movers, they just didn’t get everything and refused to work late, even though we offered to pay them extra. This is the last of it, and it’d be nice if you’d just let me know whether you want to get this done and over with, or do you just want to drag it out a little longer?” Chuck grunts a little and rolls his eyes at me as he gives a jerk on the opposite side of the sofa and manages to finally bring its legs to the landing that connects the emergency stairs with Chris’s new condo.
”Our new condo,” I have to correct myself. It’s true that I didn’t even know Chris was buying it until everything was more or less done, but still - it’s home. We made every decision together, from what colors to paint the walls (deep blue in the bedroom, brick red in the dining room, black, strangely enough, in the hall bathroom) to what finish we wanted on the floors, and everything that needed purchasing was the matter of much debate. Everything, that is, except for the fridge. The one in my last apartment had never worked right, and even though I easily clocked more hours at Chris’s apartment than mine last year, I was always very much aware that it was his place, and I tried to act accordingly. That meant not leaving anything more personal than a toothbrush, and always doing laundry in my building’s basement, even though his place had a perfectly good set of machines in a hall closet.
Now? Our clothes share opposite sides of the same walk-in closet. My framed posters from the productions I did at UM hang in the hallway alongside plaques from Chris’s days in speech and debate. The fuzzy blue rug I bought for my first dorm room sits in front of a loveseat in the room we’ve made into a joint office/studio. Family portraits hang above the living room fireplace on either side of a shot of me kissing him at his twenty-first birthday party just seconds after I’d drunkenly announced I was his. The mortgage may be in his name, but there’s no question that this is every bit my home, too, and I have a feeling it’s going to feel good to put down some roots here.
Roots, and sofas, once I manage to shove my end of it up the stairs to meet the rest of it, Chuck doing his best to help guide it through the metal door that leads to our new utility room. From there, it’s easy work, and it only takes a few minutes to get it down the hall and into the living room. “Thanks, man, can I get you guys anything?”
“Beer me,” Chuck says, and I give him a look.
“Dude, it’s not even eight o’clock yet. Can’t you wait until at least noon?”
Chuck gives a laugh and flops into the corner of the sofa. “Says the guy who used it being his birthday to guilt me into helping him move, even though he won’t technically be a year older until almost eleven at night.”
“You know, sometimes you play that brother card a little too close,” I call over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen and grab a couple of bottles of Guinness from the (beautiful, lovely, absolutely magnificent) fridge. “Compromise. Guinness is practically bread, so we might be able to consider this breakfast.” I grab a seat on the opposite side of the couch and Chuck cracks open both bottles before we clink them together in cheers.
“I can live with that,” Chuck says between drinks as he looks around the room. “It’s a nice place. Little too nice for my kid brother, but if you can’t get away with the glamorous life of the starving artist anymore, at least you can be comfortable.” His tone is mocking, but the glint in his eyes lets me know he’s happy for me, and I raise my bottle to clink against his one more time before he cranes his neck down the hallway. “Where is Chris, anyway?”
“Early morning meeting with his agent. Only time both were available for the next two weeks. Well, now, or about twelve hours from now, which would have made our dinner plans kind of hard.”
Chuck knocks the last of his beer down his throat and swallows. “Dude, you’re turning twenty-five and your big celebration consists of dinner plans? What happened to you, man?”
I get up from the couch and give a shrug as I look around the room. “I’m not a kid anymore, Chuck. I have a job.”
“It’s more than that,” he says, and he gives me that ’I’m the big brother so I have all the answers’ look that’s always driven me nuts. “I guess I just don’t understand this whole thing, you know? One minute, you’re out there hanging your shingle anyplace that’ll have you, playing your own stuff and making a real go of it. Now, you’re spending all this time singing other people’s songs, saying other people’s words, and - “
“Living someone else’s life?” I cross my arms against my chest and lean against the wall opposite him. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”
“Well…yeah,” he says, a look of defeat on his face. “I mean, is this who you really think you are?”
I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say; I just know it wasn’t this. “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”
“Dude, you’ve become some little domestic robot. You’re picking out paint swatches and matching bedding and freaking appliances, and this isn’t even your place. It’s his.”
“Yeah, his name’s the one on the mortgage, but it’s still my home. Why shouldn’t I take the time to make it someplace I’ll enjoy?”
“Darren,” Chuck shakes his head and bores his eyes into mine. “What’s the longest relationship you’ve ever had?”
“Two years, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do,” he pats the seat beside him and against my better judgment, I return to the sofa. “That’s why I’m so unsure about all of this. You’ve been with this guy less than a year, and you’re putting all this time and effort into building this life that you don’t even know will be here when the year runs out. It just doesn’t make sense, is all.”
“How,” I ask him with an eyebrow raised, “am I supposed to build a life with someone if I keep waiting for it to exist before I start?”
“I know, I know, I just…are you sure you want it to be with Chris? It’s not that I don’t like him, you know I think he’s great. It’s just that I don’t want you to get caught up on something that might turn out to be a phase or something.”
There it is, the elephant in the room that we’ve both been dancing around since the news about Chris and I broke. He’s always acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but there’s still been this undercurrent of suspicion to the way he’s talked about it that’s set my teeth on edge. “If you’ve got a problem with this, you didn’t have to help,” I tell him. “I’m sure Brian or Cory or someone would have been able to lend a hand.”
“That’s not what I said, and you know it.”
“Then tell me, Chuck, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want you to make sure you’re not opening yourself up too much, too soon, for something that isn’t like you. I don’t want you to wake up one morning and feel like you’re trapped in something that doesn’t fit, but you can’t leave because you’ve...bought furniture together, or something.” He’s clearly exasperated, and so am I, but we’re also both stubborn enough to know that we’re not understanding each other well enough to reach compromise, so we should really just let it go.
But I don’t. Because really, what fun would that be?
“I pursued him, Chuck. Did you know that? It was my idea to let people know, because I was the one who couldn’t stand hiding how he made me feel. Can you imagine if you’d had to keep Meghan a secret? How much it would hurt if people asked you about her, and you had to pretend she was just your friend or, even worse, her co-worker?” He’s shifting a little in his seat, and if he’s not starting to get it, he’s at least starting to get that I know what I’m doing. Well, as much as I think anyone can know about something like this.
He puts a hand on my knee and gives it a shake. “So, you’re really gay now?”
“Nope,” I grin at him. “I still get knocked out by a great rack just as much as I ever have.”
“Then don’t you miss them? Boobs, I mean?” He takes a deep sigh and shakes his head dramatically toward the sky. “Boobs…what can’t they do?”
He ducks his head as I throw a pillow at him, and the mood is instantly lifted. “Compare to him,” I shrug. “Nothing really does. That’s why I’m here, and it’s why I don’t intend to leave.”
“You really love this guy, don’t you?” The usual sarcasm is gone from his voice, and he’s looking at me with new eyes.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, looking around the room “and if it seems like I’m enjoying the domesticity a little too much,” I shrug. “Well, maybe I am. It’s nice, having someone to come home to. Building something that feels like it means something. I can’t guarantee that it won’t all blow up in my face at some point, or what’ll happen if it does, but I do know that I’m really enjoying the ride as long as it lasts.”
-------
It's ten thirty-seven on Thursday, December 19th of two thousand thirteen, and I'm drinking a cup of coffee as I check my e-mail when I hear the familiar sound of Chris's key jingling in the lock.
"Hey! I managed to get an earlier fight home and thought I'd surprise you." Chris wheels his suitcase into the hall and leaves it there before he joins me at the bar that divides the kitchen and living room. He plants a quick kiss on my cheek and steals a sip of my coffee before pulling a face. "Three years really should be long enough to remember that you like your coffee to resemble sludge, but I never seem to learn, do I?"
"Nope," I say, tilting my head back to give him a kiss. "It's okay, though. Helps keep things fresh." Chris takes a seat beside me and helps himself to a bite from my bagel. "How'd you sleep?" I already know the answer before I ask, but even after all this time, it feels strange to talk about it without him offering something, first.
"Ugh, horribly. I never sleep right when you're not around," he takes another bite and chews thoughtfully as he leans into me and I slip my arm around him, resting my hand on his chest. "Your chest has magical sleeping properties. Or something," he mutters, half to himself. "That's why, as much as I'd love to say I'm going to ravish you as soon as you're done eating, I really think I'd rather take a nap."
"It's okay, Chris. There's plenty of time for all manner of bed-related activity. It's one of the upshots of living together."
"That's true," he says absentmindedly. "That, and having someone else to take out the trash.
"Exactly," I grin, and take another sip of my coffee. "Oh, hey, before I forget;" I point to a small stack of packages sitting at the end of the bar, "it looks like you were kind of busy."
Chris slumps a little and puts his head in his hands. "Not again." He looks up and catches my eye. "Any idea what I got this time?"
I shake my head. "Nope. Credit card statement hasn't come in yet, and you know I never open anything not explicitly addressed to me - especially not this close to Christmas."
"I got your present before I left," he says "I had it sent to my agent's office, just to be safe. Whatever these are, your guess is as good as mine." He gives them a once-over and raises an eyebrow at me. "Want to pretend Christmas came early? There's always a chance at least one of them will be interesting."
I swallow the last of my bagel and give a nod. "Sure thing. Let's have at it." We take turns opening the boxes, and reactions range from "Dude, sweet" (for a new set of sai swords in a dark brushed metal finish) to "what the heck?"(for an enormous sweater featuring a giant, fuzzy poodle embroidered into the front), with a lot of more subdued reactions to things like books, movies, and assorted knick knacks. I've just pulled the sweater on over my t-shirt and Chris has just started playing with one of his swords when I notice one more package waiting to be opened. "Looks like we missed one. I opened the last one, so I think you get the honors."
Chris almost drops his sword, but makes a save as he turns to give the box a look. "Huh...that's strange. There were ten packages, but there really shouldn't have been enough time for more than nine to arrive by now. I mean, I don't usually buy more than one thing a night."
"Maybe one of them came from someplace nearby?" I lean forward and give the address a look. It doesn't really offer any clues, but the postmark in the upper corner does. "Huh...you ordered this one overnight delivery." I wiggle my eyebrows at him and give a grin. "Your subconscious must have been really excited about whatever it is."
Frowning, Chris reaches for it and begins to pull at the package’s wrapping. “That’s a bit of a first,” he mutters “wonder what I was in such a rush for.” The box inside is about the same size as a pound of butter, and when he lifts its cardboard lid, a strange look overtakes him. “Oh…” he breathes to himself, the fingers of his other hand lightly tracing what’s inside. Behind the lid, he fumbles with the contents and leans down to peer at them intently. “This…this is a new one,” he says in a hush as his eyes flick from the box to me and back again.
“Don’t keep me hanging, Chris. What is it?” I’m leaning forward to try and get a glimpse when he shields the box with his hands and takes a step back.
“I’m not sure I should show you.” His voice is small, but resolved, and all the color in his face has flowed to his cheeks. His eyes are wide and questioning, and it’s all I can do to not wrap him in my arms and tell him that whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing to be upset over, but something tells me that’s not the right course to take.
“What do you mean, it’s a new one? Like, a replacement for something you’ve already got?”
He shakes his head and just stares at it, transfixed. “I mean…I actually thought about this when I was awake. Considered it, but chickened out.” He gives a nervous laugh, “I guess part of me really wanted to get them, after all…” My curiosity’s getting the better of me, and I’m just about to get out of my seat when he motions for me to stay where I am. “Stop. Just…stay there, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, mainly because I don’t know what else to do. Chris can be a little high strung about his shopping tendencies, but I’ve long since learned to just let him take care of things on his own and follow his lead.
He just stands there, staring intently at the box and taking a series of deep breaths. He stays like that for at least five full minutes before lifting his eyes to mine. “Darren?” I nod, just enough to let him know I’m following whatever he’s going to say, but not speaking for fear of him stopping again. “When all of this -“ and at this, he gestures around the condo we’ve called home for most of the last two years “first started happening about three years ago, I really didn’t know what we were getting into. I just knew that you were this incredibly amazing, talented, painfully adorable and hot guy who for whatever reason, wanted to be with me, and I just felt more right, more real when you were around. I didn’t expect it to get here, and to be honest, I’m still kind of surprised that you haven’t broken my heart yet.”
I tilt my head and reach a hand out to stroke his hip. “You and me both, Chris. We haven’t always known how to navigate things, but I’ve enjoyed every stumble we’ve had while trying to figure it out, and I look forward to a lot more of them.”
“You do?” Chris’ eyes are big and almost look wet as he places one of his hands on the one I’ve got on his hip. I nod, and he takes another breath. “Really?” His voice is barely audible as I nod again, massaging his hipbone with my thumb until he breaks away and takes on a half sitting, half squatting position on the floor as he fumbles with the box’s contents. “Darren…I love you, and it’s scared me at times. You’re the only guy I’ve ever really been with, and part of me thinks it can’t last, that meeting you when I was still so young means I’m destined to lose you at some point. That something that feels so right and so perfect can’t possibly last,” and at this, his shifts forward so he’s on one knee, his other leg tucked beneath him “but I want it to.” With shaking fingers, he places the lid of the cardboard box on the floor beside him. There, nestled in a larger box, are two small velvet boxes, one of them flipped open to reveal a simple man’s ring with two small diamonds nestled side by side in its center.
“Tell me that I’m wrong, Darren? Tell me this doesn’t have to end?”
I practically fall off my stool in my rush to join him on the floor. I fall into his mouth, kissing him and running my fingers through his hair as he writhes beneath me, feeling his breath come hard and fast in his chest. Eyelids, cheeks, forehead, neck - I kiss him everywhere I can, until I feel something pointy poking me in the shoulder. Raising myself on my forearms, I look to see Chris pressing the box against me with a strangely calm expression on his face.
“Can I take that as a yes?”
“Absolutely,” I say, as we melt into each other, lost in thoughts of love and dreams that sometimes, do come true.
-------------
The clock hanging from the wall reads four eleven, and Chuck is straightening my tie. Or trying to, since I’m bouncing up and down on my heels a little too hard and fast for him to get a good enough look to make sure it’s right. “Will you just stand still a second?” He asks through gritted teeth as he pricks his finger on my tiepin.
“Sorry, man,” I respond with a small laugh. “Just nervous. Excited. Happy. Anxious.”
He gives me a smile and picks up the boutonniere resting on the table just to my left. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s going to be fine.” He raises an eyebrow and flashes a grin at me. “Actually, that’s a total lie. Something will go catastrophically wrong, possibly multiple somethings; and you’ll probably have about half a dozen panic attacks before the day is done, but -“ and at this, he slides the pin through the lapel of my jacket and into the ribbon wrapped around the flower’s base “once a little bit of time passes, those will be the moments you laugh over the most, and the ones that bring the day into focus. Trust me,” he says, giving me a pat on the arm “I know what I’m talking about here.”
His eyes are shining, and I know he’s thinking of the way that the caterer’s truck broke down on the way to his own wedding a year and a half ago, with the cake still inside it. Meghan had cried her eyes out for a good half hour when she got the news, only calming down once Chris burst into the room to inform her that not only had he arranged for the hotel’s restaurant to shut down for the afternoon in order to handle replacing the food, he’d also just bought every yellow and or ivory iced cupcake from every bakery within thirty miles, and they were all due to arrive at the venue for setup within the hour. “What good is having a name people respond to, and the wallet to go with it,” he’d shrugged as she wrapped her arms around him, “if you can’t put them both to a good cause every now and then?”
“Thanks, Chuck.” I say as I give him a hug. “It’s reminding me of stuff like that that reminds me why you’re not just my brother, but my best friend.”
“Nah,” he says, rocking back on his heels and giving me a sly look. “He is, and that’s how it should be.” He bites his lip and looks around, almost as if he’s checking that no one else is around, and then he’s wrapped his arms around me in the kind of bear hug I never get from my sarcastic, non-affectionate older brother. “I love you man, and I’m really, really happy for you,” he says, before stepping back and flashing his eyes at the clock. “Five minutes left as a single man, kid. Last chance to change your mind.”
“Not a chance,” I say, and he gives a small dance as he opens the door that leads to the outer porch of the dining room where I’ve been getting ready.
Today is September twentieth, two thousand fourteen. Four years ago today, I met a person who turned my world and everything in it completely upside down. Today, I’m going to marry him.
Sometimes, my life is really awesome.
-----------
We’ve opted for something simple, just our closest friends and family, in an apple orchard roughly halfway between Clovis and San Francisco. We’d first seen the place years ago, while driving from his parents’ house to mine, and something about the quiet, old-fashioned sweetness of it just stuck. We’ve come to the adjacent bed and breakfast a handful of times over the years, and when it came to decide where to make things official, it was the only place we really considered. It’s how most of the planning was decided, really. The date was decided because we liked the significance, and it was one of the only times that was good for both of us. The food, because there were only so many things we could think of that most of our loved ones would be willing to eat. The officiant because…well, because Chris had insisted on that.
“How dead set on this are you?” I’d asked him, dreading his response.
“More than you could possibly imagine,” had been his reply. “Look, I know you two haven’t always gotten along that well, but he’s come around, and it’s important to me that he play a part. Since it’d be kind of ridiculous to make him the ring bearer, I really think it’s the best possible solution.” I’d protested, of course, but he was firm, and there are few things more unyielding than Chris when he sets his mind on something.
Which is how I’ve come to stand before sixty of the most important people in my world as I married my best friend - with Ryan freaking Murphy calling the shots. He beams at Chris like a proud father gazing at his favorite child (which really, he may as well be), and even manages to look at me with an expression approaching what some might call “warmth” once or twice. As Chris and I slide the matching titanium rings on each other’s fingers, I feel a rush of energy surge through me at the thought that this is really happening, and he’s really mine, and somewhere along the way, I really, really lucked out.
I’d wonder if I wasn’t maybe Gandhi in a past life or something, but I’ve read that he was actually kind of a dick in person, so I do my best to just be glad that I’m me. Somehow, as Chris’s lips melt into mine and our fingers trace the lines of each others' faces, it’s not that hard to do.
---------
It’s nine seventeen at night, December fifth, two thousand and twenty, and I’m sitting in the front row of a crowded theater, lights and cameras positioned all around me, when Chris takes the stage and accepts a large award statue from a pair of smiling men in their fifties.
“Hi, uhm, wow. ’Man of the Year,’ huh? This is a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Is it okay if I put this down? Yeah? Okay.” Chris places the crystal statue on the podium and gives his head a little shake. “Sorry, uh, I didn’t write a speech, though I’m kind of thinking now that I should have, but I wanted this to be as real as possible, and I’m willing to forget someone in the name of being as honest as possible, because honesty is so, so important when we’re talking about something like this, and I’d like to think anyone I might forget would forgive me in the name of getting that right.
“Twelve years ago, I had the amazing honor of being cast on a little show called ’Glee’, and at the time, all I could think was ‘thank God, I’m finally getting out of Clovis.’ Today, I look back at that younger version of myself, and I feel ashamed. Not because I was so happy to get out, but because I never thought I could do anything to make it better while I was there.” Chris swallows thickly, and I can tell that he’s almost on the verge of tears, though he’s still far enough away to keep them in for now. “I’m very proud to say that I eventually changed that. The Clovis Center for Queer Youth is now in its fifth year of operation, just three blocks from where I grew up. We’ve got a fantastic outreach program, resources for education and counseling, and an unbelievable assisted living program for those whose parents weren’t as understanding as my own.
“It would be really easy for me to stand here and say that this is my gift to my community, but that would be a lie. The truth is, it’s one of the most selfish things I’ve ever done in my life, because I wish so badly that something like it had existed when I was young enough to need it, but not old enough to know I could take it on for myself. This center is not just a gift to my hometown and the people there who need it, it’s a gift to my younger self. Something concrete that he could have looked at and really been able to understand that ’it gets better’ is more than a catchphrase; it’s the truth.”
At this, Chris finds me in the front row, and motions for me to join him. I rise from my seat and begin to make my way up the stairs leading to the stage, and I can barely hear my own thoughts over the roar of applause that’s filling the theater, but eventually the tech guys have flashed the lights that let everyone know they need to quiet down, and he begins to speak just as my hand reaches his.
“Ten years ago, I watched from the audience as the most amazing man I’ve ever had the honor of knowing opened this show with a song he’d written while in college. Today, I’m proud to call him my husband.” He grips my hand tightly, and I can’t help but wrap my free arm around him in a tight hug before he kisses my cheek and looks directly into my eyes as he wraps up his speech. “If a speech and debate geek like me can go from hanging with the lunch ladies to living this life with this man, then anything must be possible, and I just want the world to know that.”
“So, whether you’re watching this alone in your room because you’re afraid of someone catching you, or you’re lucky enough to be watching this with someone you love, just know that it can, and it does get better, and it gets better every single day; if you’re just able to get through each day as it comes,” and at this, he hefts the statue up from the podium and holds it above his head, “so this is for the people who helped, and continue to help me make it better. This is for my family, who knew long before I told them, and never made me feel anything but loved. It’s for my mentor, Ryan Murphy, who saw something in me that made him take a chance. It’s for my husband, Darren, because even when we’re apart, I know I’m not alone. Most of all, though,” he bites his lower lip and gives me that look that breaks my heart every time I see it “it’s for everyone who hasn’t been as lucky as I have; with the hope that someday, they will be. Thank you. Thank you, each and every one of you.”
The applause is deafening as we exchange a quick kiss and walk off stage, hand in hand. I’m still clinging to him, my head swimming with pride at having him by my side, when Andrea, our manager, comes running up to us with a face full of what can only be described as panic. Her eyes dart from mine to his and back and forth about half a dozen times before she manages to say anything, but I think we both know what she’s going to say before she makes a sound.
“Portland. Complications. NOW.”
I feel Chris’s hand grip harder around mine as the color drains from his face. “Did they say anything?” His voice, so sure and strong just seconds ago, is weak and full of tremble as he asks this, and when Andrea gives her head a slow and steady shake to signal “no,” I can feel him go somewhat limp against me.
“Come on,” I say with more certainty and bravery than I feel, “I think they’ll understand if we miss the reception, given the circumstances.” I take the statue from Chris and hand it to Andrea, who gives us each as tight a hug as she can manage without dropping it before I pull Chris through the service entrance, onto the street, and into the first cab that comes our way.
“LAX,” I tell the driver “and there’s a very, very generous tip if you can get us there in under half an hour.” He raises an eyebrow in the rearview mirror, but somehow seems to understand that it’s not the time for sarcasm, and as he pulls into traffic, I take out my phone and begin calling every airline I can think of, until I find one that’s still got two seats on a flight to Portland, leaving in eighty-six minutes.
---
It’s two oh three a.m., December sixth, and I don’t think either of us has been so scared in all of our lives.
We’d barely reached the airport in time to pass through security before our plane left, and when we did get to the plane, both nearly collapsed when we were told our seats were on opposite sides of the plane. I should have known that’d be the case, I really should have, but in all of the chaos and the fear, I hadn’t really had time to think about much more than just trying to get from point a to point b. Both of us were just such a mess of nerves and fear that I’m still surprised I didn’t bite the head off of the girl who tapped me on the shoulder as we waited to board.
“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t bother you, but did you say you’re in twenty-six A?” I gave her a small nod, rubbing Chris’s arms as he bit his nails. “I - I’m in twenty-six B, and I’ll switch seats if they let me.” Chris was the first to respond, by taking her in his arms and breathing words of thanks into her ear as I gave the woman working the counter a look, and she nodded as if to let me know it’s okay. “I’m Rebecca,” the girl said, offering me her hand “and whatever’s wrong, I hope it turns out alright.”
Whether it turns out alright remains to be seen, because Alina isn’t doing so good. She wasn’t supposed to be due for two more weeks, and they’re saying the baby’s coming a lot faster than it should. Chris and I, both usually so full of chatter, have been almost completely silent since we got on the plane. It’s as if anything we say will only make the horror of the situation more real, and as long as we don’t talk about it, there’s still a chance things will be okay. I know we must look ridiculous sitting there in the hallway of the maternity ward in our rumpled tuxedos, but it really doesn’t seem to matter much right now. Right now, all that matters is that Alina gets through this okay, and the baby makes it out safely.
More than once, I think to myself how thankful I am that I didn’t end up with a wife, because I’m having a hard enough time just trying not to fall apart at this, and I don’t even want to think of how I’d feel if it were Chris in there.
More than once, I feel like a giant ass.
Alina. We’d known she was the one the moment we’d met her at the agency just over a year ago. The way her smile filled her whole face, the way she’d been so quick to joke with us, the way she explained that her own parents hadn’t been able to have children, and she’d always wanted to find a way to symbolically pay back the woman who’d brought her into the world so that she could have the best parents ever, made it clear she was the right choice to serve as our surrogate. There had been some awkward moments, like meeting her husband and two kids before her first ultrasound appointment, but for the most part, it had been smooth sailing until her water broke that evening.
We stare at the clock for hours. Three ten. Three thirty-one. Four sixteen. Four forty-nine. Five five. We see each minute click into the next, because it feels like the only thing we can do.
It’s Five twenty-three when we hear a sharp cry break through the silence, and a nurse finally steps out of Alina’s birthing room. “Would you like to meet your daughter?”
My hands clench around Chris’s as I choke the words out of my throat. “Is everyone-?” She nods happily, and it’s only once I realize that she wouldn’t be acting this way if anything were wrong that I’m able to get up from the chair and follow Chris into the room. The light is low, but the atmosphere is far more relaxed than it had been when we’d first arrived, and when I see Alina propped against a stack of pillows with a tired smile on her face, I know everything’s going to be just fine.
“I may be biased, but I think she may be my finest work,” she breathes happily as we sit on either side of her and stare at the tiny pink bundle in her arms. She’s got enormous silvery eyes and a thick shock of curly black hair, and she looks so much like a miniature version of the woman holding her that I can’t help but feel a pain in my heart to think they’ll never see each other again. “Hey,” Alina says, poking me with her finger “none of that maudlin look, you hear? This may be the last moment of peace and quiet either of you has for the rest of your lives, so you’d better enjoy it while it lasts.” She turns to look at Chris, and offers the baby to him. “Do you want to hold your daughter?”
“Daughter,” he breathes, looking into my eyes for the first time since we left the theater “we have a daughter.” He takes her into his arms and cradles her softly, using a finger to trace the details of her face. “She’s so perfect, Darren. Have you ever seen anything so perfect?”
“Yeah,” I whisper as I take in the image of the man I love holding our newborn child. “Once or twice.”
-----
It’s one twenty-four a.m., December ninth, and she won’t stop crying. I’ve sung every Disney song I can think of, but nothing seems to calm her down. I’m walking her around the house for what feels like the thousandth time that night when Chris comes through the door and makes a beeline for us.
“Shh, shh, shh…it’s okay, Becks. Don’t cry, sweet one.” His voice is soft and reassuring as he takes her from my arms and curls into the glider beside the fire. A twinkle shines in his eye as he covers her tiny face with kisses and begins to sing in that crazy deep voice of his that he almost never uses. It’s less Judy Garland, and more Paul Robeson as the words escape his mouth. “Old man river, that old man river. He must know something, but he don’t say nothing, he just keeps rolling…he keeps on rolling along.”
Not five minutes later, she’s out, squirming peacefully in his arms. We’d each provided samples when we were working with Alina, but we’d vowed to never test for paternity unless it looked like a medically valid concern. That way, we’d decided, there’d never be an issue of her being more one of ours than the others. The thing is, though, that I don’t need a doctor to confirm what I’ve known since the moment I saw her. She’s only a few days old, but she’s got Chris written all over her. From the paleness of her skin, to those enormous silvery blue eyes that I just know are going to cause a world of grief once she’s old enough to know what they’re capable of, to the roses of her cheeks, everything about her points to him.
What surprises me about this, though, is how easy it makes it for me to love her. To feel like she’s mine. Chris and I couldn’t create her on our own, but I still have a piece of him to hold when he’s away. A tiny version to watch grow and learn, with knees that I’ll kiss when they get skinned, and teeth that I’ll replace with small gifts once they begin to fall out, and somehow, I know every one of those moments will mean the world to me, because I’ll be seeing him in all of them.
----------
It’s Saturday, June seventeenth, two thousand forty-five, and I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in my life. Her hair falls over her shoulders in a cascade of black curls, and her large silvery-blue eyes shine brightly against her pale skin. She couldn’t be more than five and a half feet, even in the absurdly high heels she’s wearing, but there’s something about her that commands the attention of everyone who sees her, and I’m not just saying that because I love her with all of my heart.
I give a small knock on the door, and she turns to face me, her face overtaken by the enormous smile that has always been my downfall. “Pops!” She shouts as she runs across the room, almost tripping over the hem of her dress. “I didn’t think you were here yet.”
I wrap my arms around her, lifting her slightly off the floor. “Just got here. Daddy’s just parking the car. He’ll be here any minute.” As if on cue, I feel the familiar touch of Chris’s arm wrapping around my waist, his other arm sliding around hers.
“Oh, Becks,” he sighs as he takes in the full sight of her “I know I’m not the most unbiased person in the world, but you look absolutely breathtaking.”
She flashes us a smile as the pulls away just enough to give a little spin. “It is kind of a fabulous dress, isn’t it? But remember - I’m going to be a married lady in just over an hour, so no more of this ‘Becks’ nonsense. It’s Rebecca from here on out.”
“Sure thing, Becks,” he teases, giving her a wink. “And the dress has nothing to do with it,” Chris says, twining his ring finger and pinky in with mine the way he used to when we’d first started seeing each other “it’s the girl wearing it that makes the picture.” He leans forward to give her a kiss on the cheek, and their matching silver eyes flash at each other as the tears filling them threaten to spill over.
The music’s volume grows louder, and the wedding coordinator’s giving us the signal that it’s time. Becks - Rebecca, excuse me, offers each of us one of her arms, and as we exit the ready room and begin the long walk up the aisle toward that lucky bastard who’s taking our little girl away, I find myself reflecting on thirty-five years worth of memories. Of red vines and wasabi and teenage dreams - adult ones, too - and every single step that helped to carry us on our path. This “really great detour through the mountains,” as I’d once called it, that ended up turning into the journey of a lifetime, and every step that brought us here, seems almost too perfect to be real.
----
It’s ten twenty-four, and Chris and I are dancing alongside our daughter and her new husband, Justin. ”Son-in-law”, I think to myself. ”I’ve got a son-in-law now.” He’s a decent enough guy, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d ever really think anyone was good enough for her. I’ve always been the one to spoil her; to try and fight her battles; to see only the good in her and try to excuse the bad. Chris, always the more grounded of us, was the strict one, the disciplinarian. He’s the one who could always figure out the right way to point out her unacceptable behavior, her flaws in logic, her every failing, without making her feel like she was failing us.
It took me years to understand it (and to be honest, I think it might have gotten through to Becks first), but he did those things so that she’d learn to fight in a constructive way. So that she’d be able to see when she was in the wrong before anyone else could, and so that she’d always be able to take care of herself. He had his perceived failings pointed out to him every day by people who couldn’t care less, and it made him the person he is. By doing the same for her, but always with a sheen of love, he was able to teach her the lessons he knew best would serve her well.
They’re lessons I still think I might need to learn myself, on occasion.
He gives my hand a squeeze and whispers into my ear as the song comes to an end and another one begins. “Did you ever think, all those years ago, that this is where we’d end up?”
I do my best to stifle the laugh that builds in my throat. “No, not even remotely.”
He looks at me with those eyes that always make me lose sense of who I am, the same eyes that now shine in our daughter’s face, and asks me the question I know we’ve each asked ourselves over and over through the ups and downs of the years. “Would you do it all again, if you could?”
I look around at all everything surrounding us. At Rebecca, her head resting on Justin’s chest as he holds her with pride. At our parents, sitting and chatting away like old friends. At his sister, holding my brother’s first grandson in her arms. At decades worth of friends and loved ones. Mostly, though, I look up at him. His hair is tinged with silver, and the lines around that huge smile of his are starting to droop, but even though I see it, the only thing I notice is the eyes that have cried with me, the mouth that has laughed with me, and every story behind every line that’s marked his once perfectly smooth face. Tilting myself upward on the balls of my feet, I place a small kiss at the base of his ear and breathe in my reply.
“Absolutely.”
~a-beep-a-beep-a-beep-a-beep-that's all, folks!~
(and I really mean it this time!)
All credit/blame for this entire ‘verse belongs to blaqkheaven. She was the one who set the ball in motion when we were in a chat and she threw out the idea: ”I really want Darren to be Colfersexual and make speeches about how sexuality is fluid and it's okay to act if you find yours invalidated because it might just be the love of your life or some shit. But with HP references.” The fluidity of sexual and romantic attraction is a big thing to me, and though I’d never considered writing RPF before, the concept just appealed to me so much that I couldn’t let it go.
Of course, after the first part was finished and the requests for a sequel began to pop up, she had to mention the idea of Darren slowly moving into Chris’s place before either of them realized what was happening, and that was the seed that morphed into the second installment. What was funny, though, was that before she threw that idea out there, she also mused about Darren appearing at the Trevor Project benefit a decade down the road to enthuse about how much his participation had changed his life, and that set the gears in motion for the final chapter a few days before the second one took life.
I’m really not kidding when I say this entire story would never have existed if not for her. Well, her, and (unknowingly, at the time,) lexicon, for issuing this prompt during the recent one-sentence meme. It really helped to kick my ass in gear after being so frustrated with it for so long, and kind of created a monster, to be honest. (Seriously, over ten thousand words in two and a half days - that’s kind of insane.)
I guess maybe I ought to thank my stomach, too, since if it hadn't been feeling so awful the last few days, I would have spent them at work instead of writing. Maybe?
Finally, if you’re still reading at this point (and if you are, bless your heart, because you’re clearly a doll who may require some counseling), a tiny tidbit. Each piece of this story has had a different song associated with it in my head, and I may or may not have played each of them on a loop as I wrote certain bits and pieces. One of my very favorites kept running through my head for this one, so I’m sharing it here as a thanks for all the time you’ve spent reading, all the lovely comments, and all the joy that just writing this has brought. It is, in my head, the song they’re dancing to at Rebecca’s wedding. Because they were never, ever, being boring.
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