FIC: Radio Friendly 7 of 10 (Blake/Chris, PG)
Author: Clio
Title: Radio Friendly Part 7 of 10: We'd Rather Fight Than Switch
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Chris makes up his mind.
Length: 3300 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Special thanks to ali_wildgoose for her work on the photo in this chapter.
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
Chapter 2: Where Particular People Congregate
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat
Chapter 4: You've Come a Long Way, Baby
Chapter 5: Alive with Pleasure
Chapter 6: It's What's Upfront That Counts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~February 19, 1963
One month. One year.
It had been one year since he'd stumbled into work after staying far too late at a tea dance at Cooper's, one year since he'd stopped thinking of himself as a lone wolf in his work life and his personal life. One year since he'd met Chris Richardson.
And it had been one month since Chris, after saying yes to Cowell's offer, had been swept up in a whirlwind of image-making masterminded by Taylor Hicks. The new suit was sharp, and the new hair was good, as Chris hadn't really found a style since he'd grown out his navy crew cut, but Blake really didn't think that Chris needed training on how to move on stage. Chris already knew the best way to move every single muscle of his body; Blake had observed this first hand. But what Cowell wanted, Cowell got, and that meant lessons, lessons, lessons.
Which left Blake alone in their little office, sitting at the piano, trying to figure out what was wrong with this song and trying not to think, Chris would know. He would, but Blake couldn't ask him. If he hadn't been all but living with Chris he would rarely see him; Blake didn't know when Cowell thought they were writing these songs for Chris's record, unless of course he knew, which he might; it wasn't like he could really object. After all, nearly everyone at Syco knew about Ace, too. At least Blake could see Chris in the studio, but arranging their songs for other artists was left to Blake as Chris ran from place to place. Thing was, Chris seemed really happy and excited, and it made Blake happy and excited just to see him being the center of attention that he always should have been.
He looked around the room for inspiration. He'd never bothered to decorate the place in the year and a half he'd been there before Chris came, because he had the visuals in his head, man, and the music came out of the universe. But Chris felt that having pictures of the kind of people who listened to their songs, and the kind of things they did while listening to them, would keep Blake in the right mind-set. So they'd torn up a bunch of magazines and pinned pictures all over the walls. There were a lot of Pepsi ads because they seemed to always have teens in them, doing teen things like picnicking at the beach or hanging out in a ski lodge or cheering at a football game, none of which were things Blake himself had ever done. Well, before he met Chris. It was like after that first night a precedent had been set and they were doing all the things they didn't get to do in high school. They even drove down to Philadelphia for the Army/Navy game, sitting as close to the middle as they could, cheering against each other. Blake was glad that Navy won, though, because it pleased Chris so much.
Blake glanced at his watch. Well, fixing the song would have to wait until after the pitch meeting. Even though Chris wasn't really a new artist, and even though it had been agreed that he would be singing almost entirely songs he and Blake had written, Hicks had insisted on pitching him.
The new artist pitches were the mirror of the usual weekly songwriting pitches. The songwriting teams were the pitchees, along with Randy's production team, while Hicks, or one of his A&R guys, would introduce the artist. They'd talk about the artist's image, have them sing something familiar, give the teams an idea of what kind of songs would work with their voice and presentation. Cowell would often discuss their relative priority within Syco's stable of artists, which Blake always thought was a little harsh to do right in front of them, but that was the business, and that was Cowell, and at least you knew that once you'd survived Cowell you could survive anything.
Blake slipped his jacket back on and walked out into the hallway, where his ankles were promptly entangled in fur and leather.
"What? Oh, Mrs. Cowell, how nice to see you," Blake said, trying to extricate himself from her notoriously excitable and very tiny dogs, who were currently running in
between his legs.
"Blake, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Paula?" she said, grabbing futilely at the dogs. "Angel! Muffin! Tam-tam! Be good for mommy! Oh, Blake, could you just take two of them?"
"Of course," Blake said, scooping up what he assumed was Tam-tam, who was wearing a tiny plaid jacket, and Angel, who was all in white. "What brings you to the office, Mrs., um, Paula?"
"For the pitch meeting. Didn't Chris tell you? I've been helping with his wardrobe. You know Simon; he can barely dress himself. He only cares about what girls wear."
This was awkward. "No, he didn't, but the suit and the haircut are super. You're doing a great job; I'm sure he appreciates it."
"Well, you're the best judge of Chris's looks, so that's quite a compliment!"
"I, um …"
"Oh come on," Paula said, slapping Blake on the shoulder. "I know it when I see it. Look who I'm married to. I'm like Judy Garland. Not as good a singer but I like to think I was a better dancer."
"Um, yeah. You were definitely a better dancer." Blake wasn't really sure how to say, "Well, I see you have discovered that I am gay and want to talk to me about your gay husband and I'm flattered but this might not be the place," but luckily they had reached the pitch room.
"Hello, Ryan!" Paula sang out, opening her arms and dropping Muffin on the floor.
"Paula, hello darling," Ryan said, hugging her.
Blake put the other dogs down and quickly went to his usual seat. Watching Paula and Ryan close up was just too weird. And anyway, why was Ryan at the pitch meeting?
"So, your boy is crossing over to the other side," Daughtry said. "How you feeling about that?"
"I miss him a lot. Haven't seen much of him lately."
"See?" Daughtry answered.
"I mean, um, I'm really happy for him. He's so excited," Blake answered.
"See?" Kelly said.
Blake blinked, and turned to his left, leaning over Chris's empty chair next to Brandon. "Wow," he whispered.
"No doubt," Brandon replied.
Then Cowell came into the room, with Hicks and Chris just behind him. "Thank you, everyone, for attending. Let's just get started. I know you all are familiar with Mr. Richardson as a songwriter but Mr. Hicks felt strongly that he wanted to pitch him to you as an artist, and get your take on what we've done so far. Mr. Hicks."
It seemed odd, to Blake, to see Chris up at the front of the room in the artist's chair, rather than his usual place.
Taylor Hicks stood at the front of the room. "The point of this pitch is to get us thinking about Chris as an artist, and the best way to promote and manage him within Syco. Some of these things will be familiar but I want us all to try not to think of Chris the songwriter we all know, okay?" After the usual lack of response, Hicks went on. "Great. Okay, our new artist today is Chris Richardson. He's 23, from Virginia, and just got out of the Navy a year ago, so we're going with an all-American feel on this, particularly as he played football back in high school. So, boy next door with a bit of a romantic angle, not only because he and Blake tend to write love songs, but also because of this."
Hicks walked over to a nearby easel, and turned around the poster board that was propped on it.
On the other side was a black and white close-up portrait of Chris, staring straight at the camera, looking friendly but not smiling.
Blake tilted his head. He could hear the rest of the room reacting to the picture, but he wasn't surprised. Unlike them, he'd seen how Chris's green eyes became almost transparent in a black and white photograph, because he'd been taking pictures of Chris almost since the first night they kissed. He knew that while Chris's smile was like sunshine, and came out as frequently, that when he wasn't grinning he was almost startlingly handsome. He'd even had the idea of using one of the pictures he'd taken, or taking some new ones, thinking that Chris would be more relaxed with him, but once he looked at them with a stranger's eye, he realized he couldn't. Chris was such an open book that in every photo his eyes shone with love-sweet and affectionate in some, hot and passionate in others, but always romantic love. It wasn't even that he and Chris didn't need everyone to know about their relationship, but the photos were far too personal to slap on the sleeve of a 45.
Instead, Blake looked at Chris. Chris was still sitting in a chair next to Cowell, looking down at the table, his cheeks flushed pink. Look at me, Blake thought. Look at me and you'll be all right. And as if Chris actually heard him, he looked right at Blake, smiling just a bit. Blake winked at him, and that smile grew wider, and Chris even shrugged slightly.
"You can see," Hicks was saying, "that this is a man any girl would want to bring home to her parents. While Ace Young is the sensitive boy that a girl wants to take care of, Chris Richardson is the man who would promise to take care of her."
Blake had always hated this part of the business, and he'd never had much affection for Hicks even though the man had a good ear for talent and an great head for marketing. But hearing his own lover being packaged for sale made him feel sick. He was glad he'd been too nervous to eat the sandwich he'd ordered for lunch, or he might not have been able to keep it down.
"So we're going to have the press packages playing up his physical size all as part of that image of taking care of the girl. The songs that he and Blake have been writing are romantic but strong. Even though he's singing, he's still a man of few words. And for the tour, we'll send him out with the Kittens, and have him be taking care of them, in Haley's case, of course, on behalf of her fiance. But we are working on the right girl to link him to romantically at the start-"
"What?" Chris asked. "A sham girlfriend?"
"No one you don't know," Hicks said. "Probably Kat, or Gina, actually, would be perfect. The man strong enough to tame her rebel heart. That would go over real well."
Chris looked over to Blake, who sat up in his chair.
"Cowell? You didn't say anything about this," Chris said.
He shrugged. "Does it really matter? Don't you want us to make you a star?"
"Of course it matters," Chris replied. "Ace doesn't have a sham girlfriend."
"Well, now Ace has a very different image," Hicks replied. "He's more of a puppy-"
"I know I can't talk about who I'm really dating," Chris interrupted. "I'm not an idiot. But I'm not pretending to date Gina."
"I will remind you, Richardson," Cowell said, "that you signed a contract."
"Nowhere in that contract did it say I'd have to lie."
"We know how to make you big," Cowell said. "I thought you had what it takes."
"Let him go, Simon," Paula said.
All eyes turned to her. Blake, even though he'd walked her in, had forgotten she was in the room.
"What did you say?" Cowell asked her.
Paula turned her head, looking from Chris, to Blake, to Ryan, who looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him up. "Just let him go," she repeated.
Cowell stared at her for a long moment, the rest of the room looking at him. He rubbed his hands over his face, sighed, and then brushed Chris away with a wave of his hand. Chris stood up and walked out of the room.
Blake got up to follow him, not really caring how it looked, though on his way out he glanced back to see that Ryan had pushed back from the table, his head down between his outstretched hands. Paula looked up from rubbing his back to give Blake a sort of half-smile, and tipped her head in the direction Chris had gone.
When Blake reached their office, the door was open and Chris was just sitting at the piano, playing not much of anything, as he did when he was thinking. He was staring at the pictures on the wall. "Well, you were right after all."
Blake dropped down next to him on the bench, shutting the door behind him. Whatever Chris had to say, the world didn't need to hear it. "I was right for me, but I didn't want to be right for you."
Chris looked at Blake. "Maybe I didn't want it enough."
"Maybe you want something else more. That's the thing, with the fame, you have to want it more than anything else."
"And if you don't?"
"Then you're Melinda, or me, or even Haley. You can get your music out there and you can find ways to perform without being part of the machine. You know that. But I just, I wanted you to be the one to say no."
"Well, I'm saying no."
"Okay." Blake smiled a little.
Chris looked around the room. "Why does it smell like salami?"
Blake stood up enough to root around the papers on the top of the piano. "Because I didn't eat my lunch," he said, retrieving the unopened sandwich. "Want some?"
"Is there anything to drink in here?"
Blake pointed at the chair. "There's still some soda in the corner."
Chris leaned over, first pulling up a styrofoam cup. "How old is this tea? Jesus, Blake, it's got mold on top." Chris shook his head and threw it in the trash, then pulled up two cans of Pepsi, handing one to Blake. He took the offered half sandwich, peering at it to see Blake's usual salami with cream cheese and olive spread on rye, and took a bite. "Are you relieved?"
Blake shrugged. "To be honest? Not really. You would have been great. If you had loved it? If it made you happy? I would have been happy just playing piano for you and writing songs and watching you up there. And, you know, keeping the vultures at bay."
Chris smiled. "And they were trying to sell me as the protector."
"I told you Hicks is a hack," Blake replied. There was a tentative knock at the door, and Blake answered, "Who is it?"
"It's Ryan."
Blake looked at Chris, who nodded, and he reached over to open the door, then slid past Chris to sit in the extra chair.
"Not much room," Ryan said, looking around.
"Sit here," Chris said, patting the bench. "You'll fit; your ass is smaller than Blake's."
"Hey!" Blake protested.
"Not by much," Ryan said, sitting down and closing the door behind him.
"By a lot, actually," Blake said. "You need this sandwich more than we do."
"Your eyes are starting to sink back into your head, man," Chris said. "Not a good look for TV."
"I just need some time off," he replied. "But I didn't come to talk about me. I, um, I have this house, you know, at Fire Island Pines? No one's really out there this time of year, so it's very restful. I sometimes go out just to get my head together. I thought, you know, while you're trying to decide what to do next, well, I wanted to offer it to you."
Chris looked at Blake, who nodded. "Thanks, Ryan. It might be good to get away for a little bit. But seriously, you sure you don't need it more than we do?"
Ryan waved his hand. "I'll be fine. I have some time off coming this spring. Things have just-Simon went home to London for the holiday and he's been in a funny mood since he's been back. Everything's just a little more difficult right now."
"No offense, friend," Chris said, "but you didn't look that great even before then."
Ryan just shrugged, and then there was another knock on the door.
"Who is it?" Blake asked.
"Simon Cowell."
Ryan reached over and opened the door; if Cowell was surprised to see Ryan in the room, he didn't show it. He slid around the door, closing it behind him and leaning against it, which was the only place in the room to stand.
"Sir, I am sorry," Chris said. "I know that a lot of people put a lot of work into this -"
"No more than you did," Cowell replied. "And I apologize, too. I think … I may have pushed a bit too hard, for reasons of my own." He paused for a minute. "It smells like salami in here. Anyway, what I came to say was, Richardson, we'll release you from the contract you signed last month, no penalties, as though it was never signed. But that means that as of today, you don't have a contract here as a songwriter, since we'd put both contracts into one. Lewis does; his won't expire until the end of April. Just take the rest of the week and let me know on Monday what you'd like to do, and we'll work it out with the lawyers."
"Thanks, Mr. Cowell. I really appreciate that," Chris said.
"Look, you two have made a lot of money for this company. I don't want to end in a bad way." He stopped and looked down at Ryan, as if noticing him for the first time. "What are you doing here?"
"Offering them the use of the beach house," Ryan said.
"I thought you were going to stay there over your holiday in March," Cowell said.
"No. I need to get away, really get away, and I have two weeks."
"So where will you go?"
"I don't know. Atlanta, see the folks for a bit. Maybe Europe; I've never been there." He ran a finger along a groove in the piano. "I don't suppose you could-"
"Ryan, you know-"
"Yeah, didn't think so." Ryan sighed, and looked at his watch. "I need to get to the studio. I'll see all of you later. Chris, Blake, just call me and I'll get you the extra keys." He stood, looking at Simon, who was still leaning against the door. "Um, Simon? The door?"
Something like an emotion suddenly passed across Simon's face. "You do know this will all be over very soon, right?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" Ryan asked.
"You heard those songs, Ryan. Oh, never mind." He opened the door and walked Ryan into the hall. "Do you need a car?"
"Simon, it's fifteen blocks up Broadway. I'd rather walk anyway." Ryan waved at Chris and Blake and then walked away. Cowell looked after him, then turned on his heel and walked to his office.
Chris and Blake stared after them, then Chris turned to Blake. "I'm so glad I'm in love with you," he said.
Blake nodded, his eyes still wide. "Me too, man. Me too."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Missing Scene 1: Ryan and Simon
Chapter 8: So Round So Firm So Fully Packed. Includes what Simon sees looming on the horizon.
Notes: Ah, the long tradition of the studio or label-created girlfriend. See Rock Hudson or Tab Hunter for what was being done for them around the same time. As for what has Simon so freaked, I think many of you can guess …
Title: Radio Friendly Part 7 of 10: We'd Rather Fight Than Switch
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Chris makes up his mind.
Length: 3300 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Special thanks to ali_wildgoose for her work on the photo in this chapter.
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
Chapter 2: Where Particular People Congregate
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat
Chapter 4: You've Come a Long Way, Baby
Chapter 5: Alive with Pleasure
Chapter 6: It's What's Upfront That Counts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~February 19, 1963
One month. One year.
It had been one year since he'd stumbled into work after staying far too late at a tea dance at Cooper's, one year since he'd stopped thinking of himself as a lone wolf in his work life and his personal life. One year since he'd met Chris Richardson.
And it had been one month since Chris, after saying yes to Cowell's offer, had been swept up in a whirlwind of image-making masterminded by Taylor Hicks. The new suit was sharp, and the new hair was good, as Chris hadn't really found a style since he'd grown out his navy crew cut, but Blake really didn't think that Chris needed training on how to move on stage. Chris already knew the best way to move every single muscle of his body; Blake had observed this first hand. But what Cowell wanted, Cowell got, and that meant lessons, lessons, lessons.
Which left Blake alone in their little office, sitting at the piano, trying to figure out what was wrong with this song and trying not to think, Chris would know. He would, but Blake couldn't ask him. If he hadn't been all but living with Chris he would rarely see him; Blake didn't know when Cowell thought they were writing these songs for Chris's record, unless of course he knew, which he might; it wasn't like he could really object. After all, nearly everyone at Syco knew about Ace, too. At least Blake could see Chris in the studio, but arranging their songs for other artists was left to Blake as Chris ran from place to place. Thing was, Chris seemed really happy and excited, and it made Blake happy and excited just to see him being the center of attention that he always should have been.
He looked around the room for inspiration. He'd never bothered to decorate the place in the year and a half he'd been there before Chris came, because he had the visuals in his head, man, and the music came out of the universe. But Chris felt that having pictures of the kind of people who listened to their songs, and the kind of things they did while listening to them, would keep Blake in the right mind-set. So they'd torn up a bunch of magazines and pinned pictures all over the walls. There were a lot of Pepsi ads because they seemed to always have teens in them, doing teen things like picnicking at the beach or hanging out in a ski lodge or cheering at a football game, none of which were things Blake himself had ever done. Well, before he met Chris. It was like after that first night a precedent had been set and they were doing all the things they didn't get to do in high school. They even drove down to Philadelphia for the Army/Navy game, sitting as close to the middle as they could, cheering against each other. Blake was glad that Navy won, though, because it pleased Chris so much.
Blake glanced at his watch. Well, fixing the song would have to wait until after the pitch meeting. Even though Chris wasn't really a new artist, and even though it had been agreed that he would be singing almost entirely songs he and Blake had written, Hicks had insisted on pitching him.
The new artist pitches were the mirror of the usual weekly songwriting pitches. The songwriting teams were the pitchees, along with Randy's production team, while Hicks, or one of his A&R guys, would introduce the artist. They'd talk about the artist's image, have them sing something familiar, give the teams an idea of what kind of songs would work with their voice and presentation. Cowell would often discuss their relative priority within Syco's stable of artists, which Blake always thought was a little harsh to do right in front of them, but that was the business, and that was Cowell, and at least you knew that once you'd survived Cowell you could survive anything.
Blake slipped his jacket back on and walked out into the hallway, where his ankles were promptly entangled in fur and leather.
"What? Oh, Mrs. Cowell, how nice to see you," Blake said, trying to extricate himself from her notoriously excitable and very tiny dogs, who were currently running in
between his legs.
"Blake, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Paula?" she said, grabbing futilely at the dogs. "Angel! Muffin! Tam-tam! Be good for mommy! Oh, Blake, could you just take two of them?"
"Of course," Blake said, scooping up what he assumed was Tam-tam, who was wearing a tiny plaid jacket, and Angel, who was all in white. "What brings you to the office, Mrs., um, Paula?"
"For the pitch meeting. Didn't Chris tell you? I've been helping with his wardrobe. You know Simon; he can barely dress himself. He only cares about what girls wear."
This was awkward. "No, he didn't, but the suit and the haircut are super. You're doing a great job; I'm sure he appreciates it."
"Well, you're the best judge of Chris's looks, so that's quite a compliment!"
"I, um …"
"Oh come on," Paula said, slapping Blake on the shoulder. "I know it when I see it. Look who I'm married to. I'm like Judy Garland. Not as good a singer but I like to think I was a better dancer."
"Um, yeah. You were definitely a better dancer." Blake wasn't really sure how to say, "Well, I see you have discovered that I am gay and want to talk to me about your gay husband and I'm flattered but this might not be the place," but luckily they had reached the pitch room.
"Hello, Ryan!" Paula sang out, opening her arms and dropping Muffin on the floor.
"Paula, hello darling," Ryan said, hugging her.
Blake put the other dogs down and quickly went to his usual seat. Watching Paula and Ryan close up was just too weird. And anyway, why was Ryan at the pitch meeting?
"So, your boy is crossing over to the other side," Daughtry said. "How you feeling about that?"
"I miss him a lot. Haven't seen much of him lately."
"See?" Daughtry answered.
"I mean, um, I'm really happy for him. He's so excited," Blake answered.
"See?" Kelly said.
Blake blinked, and turned to his left, leaning over Chris's empty chair next to Brandon. "Wow," he whispered.
"No doubt," Brandon replied.
Then Cowell came into the room, with Hicks and Chris just behind him. "Thank you, everyone, for attending. Let's just get started. I know you all are familiar with Mr. Richardson as a songwriter but Mr. Hicks felt strongly that he wanted to pitch him to you as an artist, and get your take on what we've done so far. Mr. Hicks."
It seemed odd, to Blake, to see Chris up at the front of the room in the artist's chair, rather than his usual place.
Taylor Hicks stood at the front of the room. "The point of this pitch is to get us thinking about Chris as an artist, and the best way to promote and manage him within Syco. Some of these things will be familiar but I want us all to try not to think of Chris the songwriter we all know, okay?" After the usual lack of response, Hicks went on. "Great. Okay, our new artist today is Chris Richardson. He's 23, from Virginia, and just got out of the Navy a year ago, so we're going with an all-American feel on this, particularly as he played football back in high school. So, boy next door with a bit of a romantic angle, not only because he and Blake tend to write love songs, but also because of this."
Hicks walked over to a nearby easel, and turned around the poster board that was propped on it.
On the other side was a black and white close-up portrait of Chris, staring straight at the camera, looking friendly but not smiling.
Blake tilted his head. He could hear the rest of the room reacting to the picture, but he wasn't surprised. Unlike them, he'd seen how Chris's green eyes became almost transparent in a black and white photograph, because he'd been taking pictures of Chris almost since the first night they kissed. He knew that while Chris's smile was like sunshine, and came out as frequently, that when he wasn't grinning he was almost startlingly handsome. He'd even had the idea of using one of the pictures he'd taken, or taking some new ones, thinking that Chris would be more relaxed with him, but once he looked at them with a stranger's eye, he realized he couldn't. Chris was such an open book that in every photo his eyes shone with love-sweet and affectionate in some, hot and passionate in others, but always romantic love. It wasn't even that he and Chris didn't need everyone to know about their relationship, but the photos were far too personal to slap on the sleeve of a 45.
Instead, Blake looked at Chris. Chris was still sitting in a chair next to Cowell, looking down at the table, his cheeks flushed pink. Look at me, Blake thought. Look at me and you'll be all right. And as if Chris actually heard him, he looked right at Blake, smiling just a bit. Blake winked at him, and that smile grew wider, and Chris even shrugged slightly.
"You can see," Hicks was saying, "that this is a man any girl would want to bring home to her parents. While Ace Young is the sensitive boy that a girl wants to take care of, Chris Richardson is the man who would promise to take care of her."
Blake had always hated this part of the business, and he'd never had much affection for Hicks even though the man had a good ear for talent and an great head for marketing. But hearing his own lover being packaged for sale made him feel sick. He was glad he'd been too nervous to eat the sandwich he'd ordered for lunch, or he might not have been able to keep it down.
"So we're going to have the press packages playing up his physical size all as part of that image of taking care of the girl. The songs that he and Blake have been writing are romantic but strong. Even though he's singing, he's still a man of few words. And for the tour, we'll send him out with the Kittens, and have him be taking care of them, in Haley's case, of course, on behalf of her fiance. But we are working on the right girl to link him to romantically at the start-"
"What?" Chris asked. "A sham girlfriend?"
"No one you don't know," Hicks said. "Probably Kat, or Gina, actually, would be perfect. The man strong enough to tame her rebel heart. That would go over real well."
Chris looked over to Blake, who sat up in his chair.
"Cowell? You didn't say anything about this," Chris said.
He shrugged. "Does it really matter? Don't you want us to make you a star?"
"Of course it matters," Chris replied. "Ace doesn't have a sham girlfriend."
"Well, now Ace has a very different image," Hicks replied. "He's more of a puppy-"
"I know I can't talk about who I'm really dating," Chris interrupted. "I'm not an idiot. But I'm not pretending to date Gina."
"I will remind you, Richardson," Cowell said, "that you signed a contract."
"Nowhere in that contract did it say I'd have to lie."
"We know how to make you big," Cowell said. "I thought you had what it takes."
"Let him go, Simon," Paula said.
All eyes turned to her. Blake, even though he'd walked her in, had forgotten she was in the room.
"What did you say?" Cowell asked her.
Paula turned her head, looking from Chris, to Blake, to Ryan, who looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him up. "Just let him go," she repeated.
Cowell stared at her for a long moment, the rest of the room looking at him. He rubbed his hands over his face, sighed, and then brushed Chris away with a wave of his hand. Chris stood up and walked out of the room.
Blake got up to follow him, not really caring how it looked, though on his way out he glanced back to see that Ryan had pushed back from the table, his head down between his outstretched hands. Paula looked up from rubbing his back to give Blake a sort of half-smile, and tipped her head in the direction Chris had gone.
When Blake reached their office, the door was open and Chris was just sitting at the piano, playing not much of anything, as he did when he was thinking. He was staring at the pictures on the wall. "Well, you were right after all."
Blake dropped down next to him on the bench, shutting the door behind him. Whatever Chris had to say, the world didn't need to hear it. "I was right for me, but I didn't want to be right for you."
Chris looked at Blake. "Maybe I didn't want it enough."
"Maybe you want something else more. That's the thing, with the fame, you have to want it more than anything else."
"And if you don't?"
"Then you're Melinda, or me, or even Haley. You can get your music out there and you can find ways to perform without being part of the machine. You know that. But I just, I wanted you to be the one to say no."
"Well, I'm saying no."
"Okay." Blake smiled a little.
Chris looked around the room. "Why does it smell like salami?"
Blake stood up enough to root around the papers on the top of the piano. "Because I didn't eat my lunch," he said, retrieving the unopened sandwich. "Want some?"
"Is there anything to drink in here?"
Blake pointed at the chair. "There's still some soda in the corner."
Chris leaned over, first pulling up a styrofoam cup. "How old is this tea? Jesus, Blake, it's got mold on top." Chris shook his head and threw it in the trash, then pulled up two cans of Pepsi, handing one to Blake. He took the offered half sandwich, peering at it to see Blake's usual salami with cream cheese and olive spread on rye, and took a bite. "Are you relieved?"
Blake shrugged. "To be honest? Not really. You would have been great. If you had loved it? If it made you happy? I would have been happy just playing piano for you and writing songs and watching you up there. And, you know, keeping the vultures at bay."
Chris smiled. "And they were trying to sell me as the protector."
"I told you Hicks is a hack," Blake replied. There was a tentative knock at the door, and Blake answered, "Who is it?"
"It's Ryan."
Blake looked at Chris, who nodded, and he reached over to open the door, then slid past Chris to sit in the extra chair.
"Not much room," Ryan said, looking around.
"Sit here," Chris said, patting the bench. "You'll fit; your ass is smaller than Blake's."
"Hey!" Blake protested.
"Not by much," Ryan said, sitting down and closing the door behind him.
"By a lot, actually," Blake said. "You need this sandwich more than we do."
"Your eyes are starting to sink back into your head, man," Chris said. "Not a good look for TV."
"I just need some time off," he replied. "But I didn't come to talk about me. I, um, I have this house, you know, at Fire Island Pines? No one's really out there this time of year, so it's very restful. I sometimes go out just to get my head together. I thought, you know, while you're trying to decide what to do next, well, I wanted to offer it to you."
Chris looked at Blake, who nodded. "Thanks, Ryan. It might be good to get away for a little bit. But seriously, you sure you don't need it more than we do?"
Ryan waved his hand. "I'll be fine. I have some time off coming this spring. Things have just-Simon went home to London for the holiday and he's been in a funny mood since he's been back. Everything's just a little more difficult right now."
"No offense, friend," Chris said, "but you didn't look that great even before then."
Ryan just shrugged, and then there was another knock on the door.
"Who is it?" Blake asked.
"Simon Cowell."
Ryan reached over and opened the door; if Cowell was surprised to see Ryan in the room, he didn't show it. He slid around the door, closing it behind him and leaning against it, which was the only place in the room to stand.
"Sir, I am sorry," Chris said. "I know that a lot of people put a lot of work into this -"
"No more than you did," Cowell replied. "And I apologize, too. I think … I may have pushed a bit too hard, for reasons of my own." He paused for a minute. "It smells like salami in here. Anyway, what I came to say was, Richardson, we'll release you from the contract you signed last month, no penalties, as though it was never signed. But that means that as of today, you don't have a contract here as a songwriter, since we'd put both contracts into one. Lewis does; his won't expire until the end of April. Just take the rest of the week and let me know on Monday what you'd like to do, and we'll work it out with the lawyers."
"Thanks, Mr. Cowell. I really appreciate that," Chris said.
"Look, you two have made a lot of money for this company. I don't want to end in a bad way." He stopped and looked down at Ryan, as if noticing him for the first time. "What are you doing here?"
"Offering them the use of the beach house," Ryan said.
"I thought you were going to stay there over your holiday in March," Cowell said.
"No. I need to get away, really get away, and I have two weeks."
"So where will you go?"
"I don't know. Atlanta, see the folks for a bit. Maybe Europe; I've never been there." He ran a finger along a groove in the piano. "I don't suppose you could-"
"Ryan, you know-"
"Yeah, didn't think so." Ryan sighed, and looked at his watch. "I need to get to the studio. I'll see all of you later. Chris, Blake, just call me and I'll get you the extra keys." He stood, looking at Simon, who was still leaning against the door. "Um, Simon? The door?"
Something like an emotion suddenly passed across Simon's face. "You do know this will all be over very soon, right?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" Ryan asked.
"You heard those songs, Ryan. Oh, never mind." He opened the door and walked Ryan into the hall. "Do you need a car?"
"Simon, it's fifteen blocks up Broadway. I'd rather walk anyway." Ryan waved at Chris and Blake and then walked away. Cowell looked after him, then turned on his heel and walked to his office.
Chris and Blake stared after them, then Chris turned to Blake. "I'm so glad I'm in love with you," he said.
Blake nodded, his eyes still wide. "Me too, man. Me too."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Missing Scene 1: Ryan and Simon
Chapter 8: So Round So Firm So Fully Packed. Includes what Simon sees looming on the horizon.
Notes: Ah, the long tradition of the studio or label-created girlfriend. See Rock Hudson or Tab Hunter for what was being done for them around the same time. As for what has Simon so freaked, I think many of you can guess …