fiction: WiPs
Yes, yes I know wip_amnesty has been and gone but these neglected fics have sat on my hard-drive for so friggen long and I'm sick of them. You know the stuff you've been working on for so long you've kind of forgotten where the hell it was going? And suddenly when you re-read it you realise you've plagerised the entire plot from a movie you loved when you were thirteen? And month by month you add little sections? And by little sections I mean five paragraphs. And by paragraphs I mean words.
Well, this is that stuff.
So this one's a RPS where Gale and Randy come to London. Mainly because, well, I live in London and the thought of them being not across an ocean is hot to me. But in the plot? I dunno something about press, advertising blah whatever.
Monday
It’s close to midnight when they reach the hotel and raining heavily, that cold unpleasant drizzle that trickles down your neck and seeps into your clothing. They trail into the foyer, a straggle of luggage and wet umbrellas, cheeks flushing in the sudden warmth as they push damp hair out of their eyes.
Scott has been trusted with all paperwork and, while he sorts out the rooms with reception, the others drip embarrassedly onto the plush carpets and take in their surroundings.
The hotel is nice, glamorous in an old-fashioned sort of way, all gilded gold and red carpets. Gale looks round the entrance eyes wide and Peter lets out a low whistle. “Our budget covers this? My digs for the first week of filming had fucking cockroaches. This place is gorgeous.”
Gale and Randy nod in agreement, and Scott joins them at the tail end of the conversation.
“Don’t get too excited,” he warns. He sticks out his hand, dangling the key-cards from his fingers. Two keys. Between the four of them. “We have to double up.”
There’s a murmuring grumble from the group but none of them are really that fussed. Randy just shrugs tiredly. “Me and Gale, you and Peter?” he asks. They all nod in agreement and begin hauling their luggage over to the elevator, trying hard not to track mud from their shoes all over the floor.
When the metal doors slide open, they hurriedly cram themselves into the small space, tiredness turning them hysterical as Gale’s stuck balancing precariously on his suitcase in an attempt to fit everyone in, Randy laughing helplessly beneath him, his face squashed into Peter’s armpit. After a series of fairly impressive contortions Scott finally manages to reach the button board and hits the circle marked ‘down’.
“Down?” Gale asks, wobbling a little on his perch. “We’re on the first fucking floor already.”
“I guess it’s the basement penthouse,” Peter says dryly.
With a sinking lurch the elevator comes to halt and the doors slide open. They tumble out, heaving their suitcases behind them.
The hall stretching out in front of the lift is certainly a little less grand than the one above but it’s by no means unpleasant. It’s colored red and gold like upstairs and lit by the soft yellow light of lamps spaced five feet or so along each wall.
Yawning widely, they set off to find their rooms. Scott and Peter’s is first, room eight and they say a sleepy goodnight and hand over the second key-card. The hall then curves to the left and a little way past the corner is room twelve.
Randy jams the key-card into the slot and wiggles it about with practiced ease until the bit above the handle clicks to green, then he pushes open the door and helps Gale with the luggage.
Their room is more like a very small apartment, a door to their left leads into a tiny bathroom, pass the door and there’s a living area with two comfy chairs and a small attached kitchenette. Turn right after the chairs and there’s another door, Randy pushes it open.
Gale is still exploring all five feet of the bathroom, delighted by the rows and rows of miniature toiletries, when he hears Randy’s muffled “Uh-oh.”
He sticks his head out the door. “What?”
“They’ve fucked up.”
Gale joins him at the door and peers into the room. Like the rest of the area, it’s sparsely furnished and his eyes are drawn immediately to the bed in the middle of the room. Bed. Singular. A double bed, sure, but still slightly different from the twin, completely separate beds they had expected.
“Oh, crap.”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna call up and see if we can swap?”
Randy scratches his head and shrugs. “To be honest a bed’s a bed at the moment, I’m too fucking tired to care what kind. If you’re not gonna feel weird about it then I’m fine with sharing. We can always ask to move tomorrow.”
Gale nods. “Can’t be fucked to unpack tonight. I’m going for a cigarette then I’m going to bed.”
Randy reaches into his pocket for pack and lighter, “I’ll join you. Can we smoke in here?”
Gale looks around a spots a prominent “No smoking” sign propped up on a table by one of the chairs. “Guess not. But if we open one of the windows and lean out we’d be okay. Do we even have fucking windows?”
Randy peers back into the living area. There are two windows, small and very high up, but better than nothing.
“We had to climb up stairs to get to the entrance, so I guess the room’s not completely underground.”
Randy kicks off his shoes and stands on a chair to push one of the windows open. Cigarette ready in his mouth, he sticks his head out. A second later he withdraws it, hair already soaked, cigarette limp between his lips.
“Shit, it’s a goddamn monsoon out there,” he mumbles around the sodden tobacco.
Gale laughs. “”
Randy considers and the light of determination sparks in his eyes.
“Nicotine wins,” he replies. “Always.”
---
(um, yeah then something happened involving Gale making some kind of hat to protect their cigarettes... with like pillowcases and clothes hangers...and it's cracky in a pretty craptastic way so, snip)
---
“Shit, I’m tired. I’m gonna hit the hay.”
He tugs of his makeshift hat and disappears into the bathroom. Randy considers rummaging through his suitcase to find his wash bag and the sweats he normally wears to bed but decides seconds later that he really can’t be screwed.
When Gale enters the bedroom fifteen minutes later, smelling of toothpaste and soap, he’s met with the sight of Randy, already passed out on the bed, fully dressed. Taking care not to wake him, Gale pads across the room to turn off the light then moves to the edge of the bed and slides in under the covers. The last thing he sees before his eyes close completely, is Randy’s peaceful face, mouth open, drooling on the pillow.
---
(then shit happens, they have a gay ol time in London blah blah blee. I really wanted this snotty receptionist lady at the hotel they were staying, because in London hotels, the people that work there tend to hate guests with a loathing and passion on principle. So then I imagined all these hijinks which were super hilarious in my head and... not so on paper.)
---
Collars hitched up over their heads they dash through the rain, trying to avoid the puddles that soak the sidewalk. They pelt up the hotel steps and through the entrance doors, breathless and grinning, not slowing down until they’re through the doors and halfway along the corridor.
And that’s when they hit the cold and disapproving stare of the receptionist. Randy stops abruptly, Gale colliding with a wet thud against his back. To the sound of tutting and foot tapping, they attempt a nonchalant stroll along the hallway.
“Nice weather we’ve been having,” Randy announces casually, as he peers through his rain-plastered hair.
“Yes,” Gale replies politely as he drips further muddy rainwater onto the floor. “Lovely.”
She sniffs disdainfully and eyes their mud-caked shoes but before she has a chance to speak, they’re past her and speeding up, snorting with silent laughter as they tumble down the short flight of stairs that takes them to their level.
“Did you see her face?” Randy chokes. “Oh dear lord, I’ve never seen anyone so horrified by the sight of wet clothes.”
Gale laughs and shakes out his hair like a dog, spatters of water flying in every direction. “I didn’t know eyebrows could actually go up that high. Jesus, that was funny.”
---
(um, yeah. Well then they, I think they went to the cinema or something, and got drunk because then I could get them to hook up in the inebriated darkness. Only I suck at writing sex so I never actually got round to doing that. Which blows, because it was really hot in my head.)
---
Randy looks unsteadily at his watch. “Shit, it’s nearly two.”
“Crazy reception lady will be pissed.”
He nods. “She’ll turn us into pumpkins
Gale sends him a panicked stare. “Then she’ll freeze us to death with the power of her disapproval.”
“We’ll be frozen pumpkins. Sitting in front of the desk and guests will give us odd looks as they go past.”
That thought distracts them for a moment before Randy shakes his head and, taking Gale by the hand, starts an erratic run in the direction he hopes will lead them back to the hotel.
Inevitably, the end up hopelessly lost, halfway into Soho without a clue which way they should be headed.
---
(they get back to the hotel and try to get in without reception lady seeing them by crawling past her desk. Or something.)
---
Gale slowly lifts his head from the large shiny boots, past dark navy pants, and up over the belt holding a walky-talky and holster, to a white shirt and the stern face of the security guard peering down at him. He winces, then lifts a finger to his lips and whispers, “Shh, we’re trying to escape the crazy lady on reception.”
The man raises an eyebrow, Gale sends him a pleading look and hopes that Randy’s doing the same. Then slowly, very slowly, the large boots move one heavy step to the left, leaving Gale space to shuffle gratefully across the remainder of the floor and round the corner to the elevator.
A minute later and Randy wiggles into view, one hand pressed hard over his mouth to stop himself from laughing and Gale has to send him a panicked look because he knows how Randy gets when he’s high and a loud fit of giggles is really not what they need right now.
He crouches and presses the bell for the elevator then motions to Randy to hurry the fuck up. When the doors slide open they get to their feet and dash inside and Gale punches blindly at the button board as Randy falls on him breathless and laughing.
Their mouths meet, sloppy and still grinning widely. Excitement buzzing through their veins stronger than any drug.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Randy chants against Gale’s mouth. “That was so fucking close.”
“That guy… his face-” Gale stops, gasping and laughing and unable to finish.
“They’re never gonna let us back here again.”
Gale runs his hands over Randy’s shoulders, pushing up the thin material of his shirt, smiling and murmuring against his ear. “Then we better make the most of it.”
---
(aand sex. Only not really. Because I can't.)
And that's where 'Randy and Gale Do London' died a non too tragic death.
After I wrote Big Brother, I got all interested in the characters people never wrote about so I was gonna do this really awesome piece with five little ficlets each from unusual POVs. Like I was gonna have one from Rodney (Vic's boyfriend) and Mysterious Marilyn and Todd and Chris Hobbes' date to prom and, someone else who I can't remember now. And they were gonna be really great and angsty and cool. Only I ran out of steam and wrote about half of one of them.
Unnamed Blonde, Chris Hobbe’s date for prom:
Have you ever seen those girls, the preppy ones in pink on prom night? They flick their hair and giggle and drink too much of Daddy’s champagne. Have you seen them drag their dates to the dance floor, smiles wide and dizzy in the spotlights? And at the end of the night they’re the ones that are wasted, out in the parking lot in the back seat of some jock’s car, four hundred dollar dresses rucked up and creased as they stare at the sunroof and black-out till morning.
She should have been one of those girls.
Main cheerleader on the St James’ squad since ninth grade, she has blonde hair and a big house on the right side of Pittsburgh. Chris is the school’s best quarterback with large hands and the kind of sense of humor that involves dumping seventh graders in trash cans. They were practically prom dates since birth.
---
(then stuff happened with them going to prom and Chris going to get the baseball bat to squish Justin and her being all like, what are you doing, and him being all, back off bitch I'm fag-bashing blah blah blah. Then he comes back all bloody and she's still in the parking lot. Because, well, contrived situations make writing easier.)
---
“Chris, what have you done?” she screams. “What the fuck have you done?”
He doesn’t answer, just stumbles towards her and almost falls. Instinct makes her reach out to catch him and his hands fumble round her waist as he sinks to his knees. He presses his cheek against her stomach, his red-stained hands tight on her hips and laughs. That shocks her worse than the blood. He laughs, choking and hysterical.
He says, “I did it,” and “I killed that fucking faggot.”
She knows whose blood it is now, that sinking certainty heavy on her chest. Though she’d known before really, back when he’d taken the baseball bat and said, “Don’t follow me”. She lets his weight drag her down to the ground till they sit on the cold tarmac, surrounded by silent cars, his arms still wrapped around her.
Slowly, very slowly she lifts her arms to encircle his and shudders at the touch of his icy skin. Far off she can hear the sound of sirens and that faint blur of blue and red but its distant, another world. In two hours Daddy will be expecting her home, prompt on his doorstep or there’ll be trouble. Her mother will have stayed up, wanting to know who danced with who and when and for how long.
But she can’t remember the dance now or the happy smiles she’ll see in the year book photos. Things haven’t really turned out like they should have.
Have you seen her? She’s in the parking lot, yes, the black grit biting against her heels, jock by her side. But he’s shaking in her arms, not the other way round and as she stares up at the sky she can feel the slow spread of Justin Taylor’s blood, a little warm across her pink prom dress.
---
mmm angstalicious. And my Rodney one was going to be all warm and fuzzy about how they met in Italy that time when Vic's just been diagnosed and there's bonding and salsa dancing and tequila kisses and like,
He’s in Italy on business, doing shots of tequila in an attempt to find words to fill his five inch magazine column. Vic's there because he's only got three months left to live.
For their last toast at the end of the night, they tilt their glasses together and drink to courage and to death.
Only then I actually checked canon and realised they met in a Positive Men's Group. In Pittsburgh. Way after Vic was diagnosed. Oh, bite me QAF writers.
Another RPS. I started writing about the time Gale was in Suddenly Last Summer, which will give you an idea of just how disgustingly slowly I write. I had big plans, it was going to be an epic twisty romance with angst and DRAMA. Only I got bored and lazy and couldn't write the sex.
October 20th, backstage of Laura Pels Theatre
“Jesus, your hair is more fucking blond than mine.”
Scott claps Gale on the back and stage whispers, “He’s just jealous.”
Randy smiles good-naturedly and hugs Gale. “It’s true. You’re stealing my style.”
“Looks like it’s mutual,” Gale says, nodding at the beard Randy couldn’t be fucked to shave off.
Randy runs a hand ruefully over his chin, just as Gale does the same to his hair and they catch each other at it and laugh.
“So,” Gale says, grinning. “How the fuck are you guys?”
“Good,” Scott says. “Yourself?”
“Yeah, been all right.”
Randy nods in the direction of the milling crowds downstairs. “By the look of things you’re more than all right. You pretty much sold out, right?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Scott laughs, “Don’t be coy. You’ve done really well.”
Gale beams. “You liked it?”
Scott pats him on the back again. “Tremendous,” he says.
Gale turns to Randy, eyes bright. “What did you think?”
Randy smiles. “You were good, Gale,” he says quietly. “You’re always good.”
Gale’s grin gets wider and he slings one arm round Randy’s shoulders and the other around Scott’s. “I think that calls for a drink then, huh? There’s some organized shit going on post-performance. You guys wanna be my date?”
Scott, wincing under the weight of Gale, says apologetically, “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take a rain-check on that. I ought to be heading back. But I’m in town until Friday, so I’ll call you and we can meet for lunch?”
Gale shrugs. “Okay,” he says and turns to Randy.
Randy swallows and looks at his watch. “Sure,” he says. “I guess I could have one drink.”
-----
It takes them twenty minutes to get sick of the after-show party. Gale does a quick once round the room to talk to the cast with Randy trailing self-consciously behind him. But once they sit down and try to catch up, they find they have to shout over the noise to be heard and their conversation is repeatedly interrupted by people wanting to take photos.
The fifth time this happens, Gale leans over to Randy and mutters, “This blows. Wanna find somewhere else?”
Randy nods and they push their way through the crowds to the exit.
-----
They end up in a restaurant Randy likes, a little pretentious but small enough for them to be undisturbed. They take a table in one of the corners and order something with a French name that will probably just end up being steak and fries.
And that one drink turns into two and three and before they can get to the fourth they’re reminiscing.
---
(and then I got stuck on how to get their reminiscing to the parts they needed to reminisce about. And there needed to be simmering sexual tension and there wasn't. And it sucked so I ignored it.)
---
18th August ’01, Michelle’s house
It was the weekend and Michelle had invited them all to hers for dinner. It had been one of those freak-of-nature warm days and they ended up in her darkened garden drinking warm beer and lazily swatting at flies.
Gale and Scott had been put in charge of the barbeque and pretty soon they were proudly handing round plates of cremated burgers and charcoaled sausages which no one was rude enough to spit out.
Randy, beer in hand, was tipping his chair back to rest on the wall of the garden shed, his eyes on the barbeque. So close to the flames, the men had stripped off their shirts long ago and Gale was now good naturedly swatting at Scott with his spatula, laughing as Scott tried to defend himself with a kebab.
Randy was so engrossed in watching them that he jumped when Michelle’s voice whispered in his ear.
“It’s Gale, isn’t it?”
Lazy mood jolted, Randy hurriedly took a sip of beer so he didn’t have to answer and tried hard not to choke on it. Michelle took his spluttering as confirmation and continued.
“Yes, Randy, it is that obvious.”
Randy wiped his mouth and muttered, “Could’ve been Scott.”
Michelle snorted. “Yeah, it could’ve been Scott.” She watched the two men for a minute then said, “It’s not though, is it?”
And Randy took another swig of beer and said, “No, it’s Gale. Of course it’s fucking Gale.”
Hours later and Randy’s drunk too much. The conversation of the rest of the group is a distant murmur at the other end of the garden. He lies on his back and feels the wet grass soaking into his shirt as he stars up at the stars
There’s a movement beside him and when he lolls his head to the side he can see that Gale’s joined him, head tipped back to the sky, smoke trailing from his lips as he drags on a cigarette.
The air between them is dreamy and they lie in silence. The world has become rather distant to Randy, a dim glow in the in the corner of his vision. He shuts his eyes and concentrates on the thudthudthud of his heart.
He’s so close to Gale that he can feel the hairs on the other man’s arm brush against his own and he thinks how odd it is, how silly. He’s lain naked with Gale, legs in the air, mouths clashing under the hot studio lights, more intimate than he’d ever thought they’d be. So, he thinks with detachment, how odd it is to feel breathless now, at the mere touch of Gale’s arm and to shiver in the warm night air.
Gale rolls his head to face Randy. “Thea’s drunk,” he says. “She’s dancing with Peter on the kitchen table.”
“Oh dear,” Randy mumbles and smiles, his attention lazily focused on not turning to meet Gale’s eyes, knowing that if he did their lips would only be centimeters apart.
He feels Gale study his profile and then there’s a small laugh, an accusation. “You’re drunk too.”
“Uh-uh,” he says.
“Uh-huh. So don’t try to deny it Randy.”
So Randy doesn’t, but with Gale’s breath ghosting across his neck, he’s starting to think the spinning sky has nothing to do with drink. They’re so close that he can feel the warmth from Gale’s skin and his drowsy voice right by his ear.
“It should always be hot,” Gale murmurs. “Like this, you know? When we can eat outside and have barbeques. Why didn’t we get a series set in Hawaii or something, California, fuck. Then we wouldn’t have -”
And that’s when Randy kisses him, hard and a little drunken on the lips, pulling away fast before Gale has a chance to. Then he’s staggering to his feet, gasping out a quick “I’m sorry” and runs from the garden.
-----
(and stuff. Back at the restaurant things get heated.)
“I gave you your chance,” Gale says. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that?”
Trouble is, Randy hasn’t forgotten. He remembers all too well.
-----
February 14th,’02 Randy’s apartment.
“Hey lover, can I come in?”
It was Valentine’s Day, as cliché as you fucking please. Gale rang on the door just as Randy was cooking dinner, a bunch of roses under one arm, a bottle of champagne in the other.
Behind the flowers and the drink he had this little half-smile, eyes all ironic, to show Randy he was just kidding.
And Randy hadn’t got any better plans so he played along. He’d grinned and opened the door wider, rummaging through his CD collection, certain he owned a copy of “Wind Beneath my Wings” or something kind of Whitney somewhere in among his otherwise tasteful classics.
They’d spent the evening like that, listening to schmaltz and watching Sleepless in Seattle. And it wasn’t until the room started to spin with champagne bubbles and Gale twirled Randy off the sofa and into his arms that things began to change.
They’d tripped their way through the most graceful of waltzes, giggling and dizzy. One two three, one two three, Celine wailing in the background. Randy’s glasses were askew as he spun out from Gale’s arm and then back in again. Breathless with laughter he’d turned in Gale’s embrace, standing on tiptoes to wrap his arms round the other man’s neck. And he tilted his head up, until their lips were close and Gale pressed a thoughtless giddy kiss on his mouth.
The laughter faded from their eyes and they were left, pressed tight together and breathing hard. The pretence, the champagne, the roses. They all felt suddenly real, and solid, and frightening. Randy’s hands clung tighter to Gale, who looked down at him with dark eyes.
“It could be like this,” he said quietly. “If you wanted.”
And Randy stared at him and nearly fell, but he pulled back at the last moment, short of breath and scared, he’d turned away.
“I can’t,” he said, and Gale echoed it, “You can’t,” and left without another word.
Randy sat for a long time on the floor of his hallway, staring sightlessly at his feet. And he thought fuck, fuckfuckfuck. Because he’d had his chance and not taken it.
-----
Across the table, Randy blushes and looks miserable.
“I know,” he says. “I know I blew it.”
Gale shrugs. “I guessed you weren’t interested after that. The first kiss at Michelle’s had just been some drunken mistake or whatever.”
“God, if you knew how much I beat myself up over that…”
“But I didn’t,” Gale says simply. “As far as I knew I’d made a complete dick out of myself and you were embarrassed for me.”
“Jesus, no. God, I was like a fucking lovesick teenager. But I was so terrified you’d think I’d just been leading you on or that you weren’t interested anymore. So I just tried to pretend I didn’t feel that way.” He looks at his glass of wine. “But I made mistakes, I slipped up all the time. Fuck, I probably made puppy-dog eyes at you for the whole of the second season.”
Gale shrugs again. “I didn’t notice, or if I did, I assumed you were just teasing.”
“I’d say the most pointed things, I’m surprised you didn’t break your neck tripping over all those fucking hints I dropped. I thought you must’ve known how I felt.” Randy gives him a small smile, but it slides slowly away and his voice is sad. “I thought it was obvious.”
-----
August 10th ’02, on set, Greystone Studios
“Gale…” he’d whispered breathless and desperate and split second later they’d both realized his mistake. Bodies stiffening and pulling apart as the director’s voice split between them.
“Cut. What’s wrong guys?”
And Gale had peeled his eyes from Randy’s averted gaze and his furiously blushing cheeks.
“Nothing,” he’d gritted out. “Nothing, we’re fine.”
-----
Gale’s mouth chews slowly on his steak. “I don’t remember that,” he admits.
Randy stares at him. “You don’t? You were fucking furious.”
“With you?”
“Yeah, with me. I’ve never seen you that pissed. You broke my trailer.”
Gale’s eyebrows rise. “How?”
“You punched my door. Your knuckles bent in the metal, it wouldn’t close properly after that.”
“When was it?”
“First day back after hiatus.”
-----
August 10th ’02, studio back lot
“Are you fucking kidding me Randy? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Randy hurried after him miserably. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, it was an accident.”
Gale reached the door of Randy’s trailer and he slammed a clenched fist against its frame and spun round to face Randy. “I don’t get you. I just don’t fucking get you. Is it a game? See how seriously you can fuck me up? Because you’re doing great.”
“No, it’s not. I’m -”
“You can’t do this to me.” Randy was surprised to see that Gale was shaking. “Not on our first fucking day back. You can’t…” He waved a hand at Randy. “You can’t just kiss me when you’re drunk, pretend it’s nothing.” He counted it out on his fingers. “Tell me no, ignore me for the rest of hiatus and then look at me like that on set.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You look at me like you’ve forgotten that there’s other people in the room.”
Randy had looked away, lied. “I’m acting, Gale.”
But Gale shook his head. “You said my name,” he said quietly. “You kissed me and said Gale.”
---
(then all the jumping back and forth got really lame. Snip.)
---
Aug 11th ’03, cigarette break, Greystone Studios
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh.”
“Simon. I met him in New York.”
“Really?”
“He’s a journalist.”
“Mm.”
“He’s great. I think you’d like him.”
“Yeah.”
“He might come up and visit set.”
“Great.”
Randy slowly grinds his cigarette butt into the step. “Are we…” he falters. “Are we … okay?”
“Of course,” Gale says and his voice sounds strained. “Of course we’re okay.”
---
(and there was going to be stuff where they realise at the restaurant that they've been pining for each other all these years and there's heartfelt pleas and worry about how this will ruin their friendship then there's kissing and groping and sex. Then I went on to angst about Simon because I think he's a much misunderstood man who is often completely discarded but still has awesome potential.)
---
October 21st, the hallway outside Gale’s hotel room
“Hey Simon, shit I’m so sorry. No, no I’m okay. I just … I just drank too much last night and Scott let me crash on his sofa.” Scott is better than Gale, doesn’t question why. “Yeah, I’m heading home now … Okay, I’ll see you this evening. Bye.”
He ends the call and hates himself, because he’s an actor for fuck’s sake so why the hell did his voice sound that fucking guilty.
-----
October 21st, morning, Randy and Simon’s apartment
“I was worried.”
Randy’s sitting in the living room when Simon comes in. He’s chewing his nails and staring sightlessly at whatever crap is on the TV.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Okay,” Simon answers. “Do you want pasta for dinner or fish?”
-----
October 21st, evening, Randy and Simon’s apartment
Randy isn’t caught out until he’s sitting down to dinner. He’d spent all fucking evening concentrating so hard on not fidgeting, always meeting Simon’s eye, that he doesn’t even notice his mistake until it’s too late.
“So, Suddenly Last Summer was good?”
“Yeah, I liked it.”
“And your friend, Gale, he’s enjoying it?”
“Oh yeah, Gale loves the theatre.”
“He didn’t mind you sleeping on his couch?”
“No, no he was -” And he stops, because he’d said Scott’s couch. Not Gale’s. He flushes guiltily.
And that’s all it takes. Simon looks down at his plate, his eyes sad.
“You said Scott’s,” he says quietly.
Randy swallows, backtracks. “I, I meant …”
“For a good actor, Randy, you’re a terrible liar.”
Randy puts down his fork, presses the heel of his palm into his eye.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “God, I am so sorry.”
Simon shrugs, calmly carries on eating his meal. “Was tonight the first time?” he asks.
Randy can’t look at him just nods miserably.
“And he was the first one?”
Another nod.
Simon chews on his food, then carefully puts down his cutlery. He looks up at Randy, “Get out.”
“Simon, I -”
“Randy, please.” His voice is strained. “What would you do if you were me? Wait? Watch you slip away day by day, loving someone else? Knowing I can never truly have you? Or end it now?” His voice drops but his eyes lift to meet Randy’s. “While I still have some dignity.”
-----
October 21st, night, a phone booth, 7th avenue
Randy stands in a phone booth, his cheek pressed against the cool glass.
“Hey, Gale. It’s me. I need somewhere to stay tonight.”
-----
October 21st, room 106, Portland Square Hotel
“So, what happened?”
“He threw me out.”
Gale doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Randy, holds him tight. They stand like that in the middle of the room, rocking gently from side to side.
Randy stares sightlessly over Gale’s shoulder. “God, you should have seen him.”
Gale puts a hand to the small of Randy’s back, makes those useless shushing noises, but Randy doesn’t relax.
“He wasn’t mad,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing. He wasn’t even mad.”
---
(and then there was probably going to be angsty, yet loving, sex.)
---
“Will you be pissed if I talk about the good things?”
Randy’s eventually stopped shaking and Gale sits opposite him on the bed, cross-legged. They’ve ordered room service and it’s spread like a feast across the mattress
Randy picks at his chips and shakes his head. “No, go ahead.”
“I feel bad, real bad, about what happened between you and Simon but,” he pauses, eyes flicking up to meet Randy’s. “Well, you’re here and I can’t pretend I’m not glad about that. And you picked me, which is, you know, nice. It seems like, considering how much we fucked up over the years, things have turned out kind of okay.”
Randy gives him a smile, it’s small, but it’s something. He munches on his chips with slightly more enthusiasm.
(something. Probably sex.)
"Is there any food left?”
“Jesus, you still hungry?”
“Mm-hmm, what you got?”
Gale rummages around the left-overs, “Um, an apple?” He grins holding one up. “For the apple of my eye.”
Randy grimaces, “God, that was corny.”
Gale looks hurt. “Just trying to be nice.”
“Lucky I saw your body that first day on set before you had chance to attempt a pick-up line if that was anything to go by.”
“I’ll have you know, I have a number of very good pick-ups.”
Randy takes a bite of the apple, smirks. “Go on then. Hit me.”
“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”
Randy laughs. “That’s old.”
“Fine, if you’re so good at it, you have a go.”
“Okay… Was your daddy a thief? Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes.”
“That’s not romantic, you’re accusing my parents of felony!”
“Fine. Did your daddy play the trumpet? Because…because,” Randy laughs again and can hardly finish.
“Oh come on. Spit it out.”
“Because he sure made me horny!”
It deserves both eye roll and groan and Gale dutifully does both. “Seriously. Where do you get these from?”
Randy shrugs. “Hal. Go on, your turn.”
Gale thinks for a minute then grins. “I am the Love Pirate and I’m here for your booty?”
Randy laughs. “You’re terrible. How did you ever get laid? Come on, try something like …Your legs must be tired, you’ve been running through my thoughts all day.”
“Can I borrow a quarter? I need to ring your mom and say you won’t be home tonight.”
“There you go! Is there an airport nearby or is that just my heart taking off?”
“Um, um…what’s your star sign?”
“Lame, Gale, lame. Do you have a map? I keep getting lost in your eyes.”
“If you were a tear… I’d cry, no, I wouldn’t cry… oh crap.”
Randy crows triumphantly. “I win!”
Gale flumps his head back onto the pillow in defeat. “Whatever.”
Randy scooches closer. “And they’re all true baby.”
“Really?”
Randy’s face turns serious. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, not the thief and trumpet bit. But, yeah, stars, heart, whoom et cetera.”
Gale smiles at him, plants a soft kiss on his lips. “Good. Now promise to never ever say anything that cheesy in my presence again.”
“You started it.”
“I was being charming!”
“Was your daddy king for a day?”
“Randy-”
“He must have been because you’re my Prince Charming!”
“Randy, I swear…”
“Fine, fine. That was the last one. I promise.”
“Jesus, I suddenly have a new found respect for Simon.”
Randy stiffens in his arms and immediately Gale tries to take it back. “Shit, Randy, I didn’t… you know I…” He sighs. “Sorry.”
Randy takes a deep breath. “No, don’t apologize. I made my choice.” He swallows. “I’m sad that it ended with Simon the way it did, but that doesn’t mean that I’m sad that it’s over.” He looks up at Gale and says simply, “I want to be with you.”
Gale wordlessly takes his hand and squeezes it, a silent thanks. They stay like that, hand in hand, staring up at the shitty motel ceiling. Then Randy says, “Gale?”
“Mm.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Huh?”
“You know,” he looks at him. “When you fell from heaven?”
He has to dodge to avoid the power of Gale’s death stare.
TEH END.
Sadly, those are only the more coherant, readable fraction of the guhzillion fics that currently clog my folders. Consider it spring cleaning.
Well, this is that stuff.
So this one's a RPS where Gale and Randy come to London. Mainly because, well, I live in London and the thought of them being not across an ocean is hot to me. But in the plot? I dunno something about press, advertising blah whatever.
Monday
It’s close to midnight when they reach the hotel and raining heavily, that cold unpleasant drizzle that trickles down your neck and seeps into your clothing. They trail into the foyer, a straggle of luggage and wet umbrellas, cheeks flushing in the sudden warmth as they push damp hair out of their eyes.
Scott has been trusted with all paperwork and, while he sorts out the rooms with reception, the others drip embarrassedly onto the plush carpets and take in their surroundings.
The hotel is nice, glamorous in an old-fashioned sort of way, all gilded gold and red carpets. Gale looks round the entrance eyes wide and Peter lets out a low whistle. “Our budget covers this? My digs for the first week of filming had fucking cockroaches. This place is gorgeous.”
Gale and Randy nod in agreement, and Scott joins them at the tail end of the conversation.
“Don’t get too excited,” he warns. He sticks out his hand, dangling the key-cards from his fingers. Two keys. Between the four of them. “We have to double up.”
There’s a murmuring grumble from the group but none of them are really that fussed. Randy just shrugs tiredly. “Me and Gale, you and Peter?” he asks. They all nod in agreement and begin hauling their luggage over to the elevator, trying hard not to track mud from their shoes all over the floor.
When the metal doors slide open, they hurriedly cram themselves into the small space, tiredness turning them hysterical as Gale’s stuck balancing precariously on his suitcase in an attempt to fit everyone in, Randy laughing helplessly beneath him, his face squashed into Peter’s armpit. After a series of fairly impressive contortions Scott finally manages to reach the button board and hits the circle marked ‘down’.
“Down?” Gale asks, wobbling a little on his perch. “We’re on the first fucking floor already.”
“I guess it’s the basement penthouse,” Peter says dryly.
With a sinking lurch the elevator comes to halt and the doors slide open. They tumble out, heaving their suitcases behind them.
The hall stretching out in front of the lift is certainly a little less grand than the one above but it’s by no means unpleasant. It’s colored red and gold like upstairs and lit by the soft yellow light of lamps spaced five feet or so along each wall.
Yawning widely, they set off to find their rooms. Scott and Peter’s is first, room eight and they say a sleepy goodnight and hand over the second key-card. The hall then curves to the left and a little way past the corner is room twelve.
Randy jams the key-card into the slot and wiggles it about with practiced ease until the bit above the handle clicks to green, then he pushes open the door and helps Gale with the luggage.
Their room is more like a very small apartment, a door to their left leads into a tiny bathroom, pass the door and there’s a living area with two comfy chairs and a small attached kitchenette. Turn right after the chairs and there’s another door, Randy pushes it open.
Gale is still exploring all five feet of the bathroom, delighted by the rows and rows of miniature toiletries, when he hears Randy’s muffled “Uh-oh.”
He sticks his head out the door. “What?”
“They’ve fucked up.”
Gale joins him at the door and peers into the room. Like the rest of the area, it’s sparsely furnished and his eyes are drawn immediately to the bed in the middle of the room. Bed. Singular. A double bed, sure, but still slightly different from the twin, completely separate beds they had expected.
“Oh, crap.”
“Yeah.”
“You wanna call up and see if we can swap?”
Randy scratches his head and shrugs. “To be honest a bed’s a bed at the moment, I’m too fucking tired to care what kind. If you’re not gonna feel weird about it then I’m fine with sharing. We can always ask to move tomorrow.”
Gale nods. “Can’t be fucked to unpack tonight. I’m going for a cigarette then I’m going to bed.”
Randy reaches into his pocket for pack and lighter, “I’ll join you. Can we smoke in here?”
Gale looks around a spots a prominent “No smoking” sign propped up on a table by one of the chairs. “Guess not. But if we open one of the windows and lean out we’d be okay. Do we even have fucking windows?”
Randy peers back into the living area. There are two windows, small and very high up, but better than nothing.
“We had to climb up stairs to get to the entrance, so I guess the room’s not completely underground.”
Randy kicks off his shoes and stands on a chair to push one of the windows open. Cigarette ready in his mouth, he sticks his head out. A second later he withdraws it, hair already soaked, cigarette limp between his lips.
“Shit, it’s a goddamn monsoon out there,” he mumbles around the sodden tobacco.
Gale laughs. “”
Randy considers and the light of determination sparks in his eyes.
“Nicotine wins,” he replies. “Always.”
---
(um, yeah then something happened involving Gale making some kind of hat to protect their cigarettes... with like pillowcases and clothes hangers...and it's cracky in a pretty craptastic way so, snip)
---
“Shit, I’m tired. I’m gonna hit the hay.”
He tugs of his makeshift hat and disappears into the bathroom. Randy considers rummaging through his suitcase to find his wash bag and the sweats he normally wears to bed but decides seconds later that he really can’t be screwed.
When Gale enters the bedroom fifteen minutes later, smelling of toothpaste and soap, he’s met with the sight of Randy, already passed out on the bed, fully dressed. Taking care not to wake him, Gale pads across the room to turn off the light then moves to the edge of the bed and slides in under the covers. The last thing he sees before his eyes close completely, is Randy’s peaceful face, mouth open, drooling on the pillow.
---
(then shit happens, they have a gay ol time in London blah blah blee. I really wanted this snotty receptionist lady at the hotel they were staying, because in London hotels, the people that work there tend to hate guests with a loathing and passion on principle. So then I imagined all these hijinks which were super hilarious in my head and... not so on paper.)
---
Collars hitched up over their heads they dash through the rain, trying to avoid the puddles that soak the sidewalk. They pelt up the hotel steps and through the entrance doors, breathless and grinning, not slowing down until they’re through the doors and halfway along the corridor.
And that’s when they hit the cold and disapproving stare of the receptionist. Randy stops abruptly, Gale colliding with a wet thud against his back. To the sound of tutting and foot tapping, they attempt a nonchalant stroll along the hallway.
“Nice weather we’ve been having,” Randy announces casually, as he peers through his rain-plastered hair.
“Yes,” Gale replies politely as he drips further muddy rainwater onto the floor. “Lovely.”
She sniffs disdainfully and eyes their mud-caked shoes but before she has a chance to speak, they’re past her and speeding up, snorting with silent laughter as they tumble down the short flight of stairs that takes them to their level.
“Did you see her face?” Randy chokes. “Oh dear lord, I’ve never seen anyone so horrified by the sight of wet clothes.”
Gale laughs and shakes out his hair like a dog, spatters of water flying in every direction. “I didn’t know eyebrows could actually go up that high. Jesus, that was funny.”
---
(um, yeah. Well then they, I think they went to the cinema or something, and got drunk because then I could get them to hook up in the inebriated darkness. Only I suck at writing sex so I never actually got round to doing that. Which blows, because it was really hot in my head.)
---
Randy looks unsteadily at his watch. “Shit, it’s nearly two.”
“Crazy reception lady will be pissed.”
He nods. “She’ll turn us into pumpkins
Gale sends him a panicked stare. “Then she’ll freeze us to death with the power of her disapproval.”
“We’ll be frozen pumpkins. Sitting in front of the desk and guests will give us odd looks as they go past.”
That thought distracts them for a moment before Randy shakes his head and, taking Gale by the hand, starts an erratic run in the direction he hopes will lead them back to the hotel.
Inevitably, the end up hopelessly lost, halfway into Soho without a clue which way they should be headed.
---
(they get back to the hotel and try to get in without reception lady seeing them by crawling past her desk. Or something.)
---
Gale slowly lifts his head from the large shiny boots, past dark navy pants, and up over the belt holding a walky-talky and holster, to a white shirt and the stern face of the security guard peering down at him. He winces, then lifts a finger to his lips and whispers, “Shh, we’re trying to escape the crazy lady on reception.”
The man raises an eyebrow, Gale sends him a pleading look and hopes that Randy’s doing the same. Then slowly, very slowly, the large boots move one heavy step to the left, leaving Gale space to shuffle gratefully across the remainder of the floor and round the corner to the elevator.
A minute later and Randy wiggles into view, one hand pressed hard over his mouth to stop himself from laughing and Gale has to send him a panicked look because he knows how Randy gets when he’s high and a loud fit of giggles is really not what they need right now.
He crouches and presses the bell for the elevator then motions to Randy to hurry the fuck up. When the doors slide open they get to their feet and dash inside and Gale punches blindly at the button board as Randy falls on him breathless and laughing.
Their mouths meet, sloppy and still grinning widely. Excitement buzzing through their veins stronger than any drug.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Randy chants against Gale’s mouth. “That was so fucking close.”
“That guy… his face-” Gale stops, gasping and laughing and unable to finish.
“They’re never gonna let us back here again.”
Gale runs his hands over Randy’s shoulders, pushing up the thin material of his shirt, smiling and murmuring against his ear. “Then we better make the most of it.”
---
(aand sex. Only not really. Because I can't.)
And that's where 'Randy and Gale Do London' died a non too tragic death.
After I wrote Big Brother, I got all interested in the characters people never wrote about so I was gonna do this really awesome piece with five little ficlets each from unusual POVs. Like I was gonna have one from Rodney (Vic's boyfriend) and Mysterious Marilyn and Todd and Chris Hobbes' date to prom and, someone else who I can't remember now. And they were gonna be really great and angsty and cool. Only I ran out of steam and wrote about half of one of them.
Unnamed Blonde, Chris Hobbe’s date for prom:
Have you ever seen those girls, the preppy ones in pink on prom night? They flick their hair and giggle and drink too much of Daddy’s champagne. Have you seen them drag their dates to the dance floor, smiles wide and dizzy in the spotlights? And at the end of the night they’re the ones that are wasted, out in the parking lot in the back seat of some jock’s car, four hundred dollar dresses rucked up and creased as they stare at the sunroof and black-out till morning.
She should have been one of those girls.
Main cheerleader on the St James’ squad since ninth grade, she has blonde hair and a big house on the right side of Pittsburgh. Chris is the school’s best quarterback with large hands and the kind of sense of humor that involves dumping seventh graders in trash cans. They were practically prom dates since birth.
---
(then stuff happened with them going to prom and Chris going to get the baseball bat to squish Justin and her being all like, what are you doing, and him being all, back off bitch I'm fag-bashing blah blah blah. Then he comes back all bloody and she's still in the parking lot. Because, well, contrived situations make writing easier.)
---
“Chris, what have you done?” she screams. “What the fuck have you done?”
He doesn’t answer, just stumbles towards her and almost falls. Instinct makes her reach out to catch him and his hands fumble round her waist as he sinks to his knees. He presses his cheek against her stomach, his red-stained hands tight on her hips and laughs. That shocks her worse than the blood. He laughs, choking and hysterical.
He says, “I did it,” and “I killed that fucking faggot.”
She knows whose blood it is now, that sinking certainty heavy on her chest. Though she’d known before really, back when he’d taken the baseball bat and said, “Don’t follow me”. She lets his weight drag her down to the ground till they sit on the cold tarmac, surrounded by silent cars, his arms still wrapped around her.
Slowly, very slowly she lifts her arms to encircle his and shudders at the touch of his icy skin. Far off she can hear the sound of sirens and that faint blur of blue and red but its distant, another world. In two hours Daddy will be expecting her home, prompt on his doorstep or there’ll be trouble. Her mother will have stayed up, wanting to know who danced with who and when and for how long.
But she can’t remember the dance now or the happy smiles she’ll see in the year book photos. Things haven’t really turned out like they should have.
Have you seen her? She’s in the parking lot, yes, the black grit biting against her heels, jock by her side. But he’s shaking in her arms, not the other way round and as she stares up at the sky she can feel the slow spread of Justin Taylor’s blood, a little warm across her pink prom dress.
---
mmm angstalicious. And my Rodney one was going to be all warm and fuzzy about how they met in Italy that time when Vic's just been diagnosed and there's bonding and salsa dancing and tequila kisses and like,
He’s in Italy on business, doing shots of tequila in an attempt to find words to fill his five inch magazine column. Vic's there because he's only got three months left to live.
For their last toast at the end of the night, they tilt their glasses together and drink to courage and to death.
Only then I actually checked canon and realised they met in a Positive Men's Group. In Pittsburgh. Way after Vic was diagnosed. Oh, bite me QAF writers.
Another RPS. I started writing about the time Gale was in Suddenly Last Summer, which will give you an idea of just how disgustingly slowly I write. I had big plans, it was going to be an epic twisty romance with angst and DRAMA. Only I got bored and lazy and couldn't write the sex.
October 20th, backstage of Laura Pels Theatre
“Jesus, your hair is more fucking blond than mine.”
Scott claps Gale on the back and stage whispers, “He’s just jealous.”
Randy smiles good-naturedly and hugs Gale. “It’s true. You’re stealing my style.”
“Looks like it’s mutual,” Gale says, nodding at the beard Randy couldn’t be fucked to shave off.
Randy runs a hand ruefully over his chin, just as Gale does the same to his hair and they catch each other at it and laugh.
“So,” Gale says, grinning. “How the fuck are you guys?”
“Good,” Scott says. “Yourself?”
“Yeah, been all right.”
Randy nods in the direction of the milling crowds downstairs. “By the look of things you’re more than all right. You pretty much sold out, right?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Scott laughs, “Don’t be coy. You’ve done really well.”
Gale beams. “You liked it?”
Scott pats him on the back again. “Tremendous,” he says.
Gale turns to Randy, eyes bright. “What did you think?”
Randy smiles. “You were good, Gale,” he says quietly. “You’re always good.”
Gale’s grin gets wider and he slings one arm round Randy’s shoulders and the other around Scott’s. “I think that calls for a drink then, huh? There’s some organized shit going on post-performance. You guys wanna be my date?”
Scott, wincing under the weight of Gale, says apologetically, “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take a rain-check on that. I ought to be heading back. But I’m in town until Friday, so I’ll call you and we can meet for lunch?”
Gale shrugs. “Okay,” he says and turns to Randy.
Randy swallows and looks at his watch. “Sure,” he says. “I guess I could have one drink.”
-----
It takes them twenty minutes to get sick of the after-show party. Gale does a quick once round the room to talk to the cast with Randy trailing self-consciously behind him. But once they sit down and try to catch up, they find they have to shout over the noise to be heard and their conversation is repeatedly interrupted by people wanting to take photos.
The fifth time this happens, Gale leans over to Randy and mutters, “This blows. Wanna find somewhere else?”
Randy nods and they push their way through the crowds to the exit.
-----
They end up in a restaurant Randy likes, a little pretentious but small enough for them to be undisturbed. They take a table in one of the corners and order something with a French name that will probably just end up being steak and fries.
And that one drink turns into two and three and before they can get to the fourth they’re reminiscing.
---
(and then I got stuck on how to get their reminiscing to the parts they needed to reminisce about. And there needed to be simmering sexual tension and there wasn't. And it sucked so I ignored it.)
---
18th August ’01, Michelle’s house
It was the weekend and Michelle had invited them all to hers for dinner. It had been one of those freak-of-nature warm days and they ended up in her darkened garden drinking warm beer and lazily swatting at flies.
Gale and Scott had been put in charge of the barbeque and pretty soon they were proudly handing round plates of cremated burgers and charcoaled sausages which no one was rude enough to spit out.
Randy, beer in hand, was tipping his chair back to rest on the wall of the garden shed, his eyes on the barbeque. So close to the flames, the men had stripped off their shirts long ago and Gale was now good naturedly swatting at Scott with his spatula, laughing as Scott tried to defend himself with a kebab.
Randy was so engrossed in watching them that he jumped when Michelle’s voice whispered in his ear.
“It’s Gale, isn’t it?”
Lazy mood jolted, Randy hurriedly took a sip of beer so he didn’t have to answer and tried hard not to choke on it. Michelle took his spluttering as confirmation and continued.
“Yes, Randy, it is that obvious.”
Randy wiped his mouth and muttered, “Could’ve been Scott.”
Michelle snorted. “Yeah, it could’ve been Scott.” She watched the two men for a minute then said, “It’s not though, is it?”
And Randy took another swig of beer and said, “No, it’s Gale. Of course it’s fucking Gale.”
Hours later and Randy’s drunk too much. The conversation of the rest of the group is a distant murmur at the other end of the garden. He lies on his back and feels the wet grass soaking into his shirt as he stars up at the stars
There’s a movement beside him and when he lolls his head to the side he can see that Gale’s joined him, head tipped back to the sky, smoke trailing from his lips as he drags on a cigarette.
The air between them is dreamy and they lie in silence. The world has become rather distant to Randy, a dim glow in the in the corner of his vision. He shuts his eyes and concentrates on the thudthudthud of his heart.
He’s so close to Gale that he can feel the hairs on the other man’s arm brush against his own and he thinks how odd it is, how silly. He’s lain naked with Gale, legs in the air, mouths clashing under the hot studio lights, more intimate than he’d ever thought they’d be. So, he thinks with detachment, how odd it is to feel breathless now, at the mere touch of Gale’s arm and to shiver in the warm night air.
Gale rolls his head to face Randy. “Thea’s drunk,” he says. “She’s dancing with Peter on the kitchen table.”
“Oh dear,” Randy mumbles and smiles, his attention lazily focused on not turning to meet Gale’s eyes, knowing that if he did their lips would only be centimeters apart.
He feels Gale study his profile and then there’s a small laugh, an accusation. “You’re drunk too.”
“Uh-uh,” he says.
“Uh-huh. So don’t try to deny it Randy.”
So Randy doesn’t, but with Gale’s breath ghosting across his neck, he’s starting to think the spinning sky has nothing to do with drink. They’re so close that he can feel the warmth from Gale’s skin and his drowsy voice right by his ear.
“It should always be hot,” Gale murmurs. “Like this, you know? When we can eat outside and have barbeques. Why didn’t we get a series set in Hawaii or something, California, fuck. Then we wouldn’t have -”
And that’s when Randy kisses him, hard and a little drunken on the lips, pulling away fast before Gale has a chance to. Then he’s staggering to his feet, gasping out a quick “I’m sorry” and runs from the garden.
-----
(and stuff. Back at the restaurant things get heated.)
“I gave you your chance,” Gale says. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that?”
Trouble is, Randy hasn’t forgotten. He remembers all too well.
-----
February 14th,’02 Randy’s apartment.
“Hey lover, can I come in?”
It was Valentine’s Day, as cliché as you fucking please. Gale rang on the door just as Randy was cooking dinner, a bunch of roses under one arm, a bottle of champagne in the other.
Behind the flowers and the drink he had this little half-smile, eyes all ironic, to show Randy he was just kidding.
And Randy hadn’t got any better plans so he played along. He’d grinned and opened the door wider, rummaging through his CD collection, certain he owned a copy of “Wind Beneath my Wings” or something kind of Whitney somewhere in among his otherwise tasteful classics.
They’d spent the evening like that, listening to schmaltz and watching Sleepless in Seattle. And it wasn’t until the room started to spin with champagne bubbles and Gale twirled Randy off the sofa and into his arms that things began to change.
They’d tripped their way through the most graceful of waltzes, giggling and dizzy. One two three, one two three, Celine wailing in the background. Randy’s glasses were askew as he spun out from Gale’s arm and then back in again. Breathless with laughter he’d turned in Gale’s embrace, standing on tiptoes to wrap his arms round the other man’s neck. And he tilted his head up, until their lips were close and Gale pressed a thoughtless giddy kiss on his mouth.
The laughter faded from their eyes and they were left, pressed tight together and breathing hard. The pretence, the champagne, the roses. They all felt suddenly real, and solid, and frightening. Randy’s hands clung tighter to Gale, who looked down at him with dark eyes.
“It could be like this,” he said quietly. “If you wanted.”
And Randy stared at him and nearly fell, but he pulled back at the last moment, short of breath and scared, he’d turned away.
“I can’t,” he said, and Gale echoed it, “You can’t,” and left without another word.
Randy sat for a long time on the floor of his hallway, staring sightlessly at his feet. And he thought fuck, fuckfuckfuck. Because he’d had his chance and not taken it.
-----
Across the table, Randy blushes and looks miserable.
“I know,” he says. “I know I blew it.”
Gale shrugs. “I guessed you weren’t interested after that. The first kiss at Michelle’s had just been some drunken mistake or whatever.”
“God, if you knew how much I beat myself up over that…”
“But I didn’t,” Gale says simply. “As far as I knew I’d made a complete dick out of myself and you were embarrassed for me.”
“Jesus, no. God, I was like a fucking lovesick teenager. But I was so terrified you’d think I’d just been leading you on or that you weren’t interested anymore. So I just tried to pretend I didn’t feel that way.” He looks at his glass of wine. “But I made mistakes, I slipped up all the time. Fuck, I probably made puppy-dog eyes at you for the whole of the second season.”
Gale shrugs again. “I didn’t notice, or if I did, I assumed you were just teasing.”
“I’d say the most pointed things, I’m surprised you didn’t break your neck tripping over all those fucking hints I dropped. I thought you must’ve known how I felt.” Randy gives him a small smile, but it slides slowly away and his voice is sad. “I thought it was obvious.”
-----
August 10th ’02, on set, Greystone Studios
“Gale…” he’d whispered breathless and desperate and split second later they’d both realized his mistake. Bodies stiffening and pulling apart as the director’s voice split between them.
“Cut. What’s wrong guys?”
And Gale had peeled his eyes from Randy’s averted gaze and his furiously blushing cheeks.
“Nothing,” he’d gritted out. “Nothing, we’re fine.”
-----
Gale’s mouth chews slowly on his steak. “I don’t remember that,” he admits.
Randy stares at him. “You don’t? You were fucking furious.”
“With you?”
“Yeah, with me. I’ve never seen you that pissed. You broke my trailer.”
Gale’s eyebrows rise. “How?”
“You punched my door. Your knuckles bent in the metal, it wouldn’t close properly after that.”
“When was it?”
“First day back after hiatus.”
-----
August 10th ’02, studio back lot
“Are you fucking kidding me Randy? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Randy hurried after him miserably. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, it was an accident.”
Gale reached the door of Randy’s trailer and he slammed a clenched fist against its frame and spun round to face Randy. “I don’t get you. I just don’t fucking get you. Is it a game? See how seriously you can fuck me up? Because you’re doing great.”
“No, it’s not. I’m -”
“You can’t do this to me.” Randy was surprised to see that Gale was shaking. “Not on our first fucking day back. You can’t…” He waved a hand at Randy. “You can’t just kiss me when you’re drunk, pretend it’s nothing.” He counted it out on his fingers. “Tell me no, ignore me for the rest of hiatus and then look at me like that on set.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You look at me like you’ve forgotten that there’s other people in the room.”
Randy had looked away, lied. “I’m acting, Gale.”
But Gale shook his head. “You said my name,” he said quietly. “You kissed me and said Gale.”
---
(then all the jumping back and forth got really lame. Snip.)
---
Aug 11th ’03, cigarette break, Greystone Studios
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh.”
“Simon. I met him in New York.”
“Really?”
“He’s a journalist.”
“Mm.”
“He’s great. I think you’d like him.”
“Yeah.”
“He might come up and visit set.”
“Great.”
Randy slowly grinds his cigarette butt into the step. “Are we…” he falters. “Are we … okay?”
“Of course,” Gale says and his voice sounds strained. “Of course we’re okay.”
---
(and there was going to be stuff where they realise at the restaurant that they've been pining for each other all these years and there's heartfelt pleas and worry about how this will ruin their friendship then there's kissing and groping and sex. Then I went on to angst about Simon because I think he's a much misunderstood man who is often completely discarded but still has awesome potential.)
---
October 21st, the hallway outside Gale’s hotel room
“Hey Simon, shit I’m so sorry. No, no I’m okay. I just … I just drank too much last night and Scott let me crash on his sofa.” Scott is better than Gale, doesn’t question why. “Yeah, I’m heading home now … Okay, I’ll see you this evening. Bye.”
He ends the call and hates himself, because he’s an actor for fuck’s sake so why the hell did his voice sound that fucking guilty.
-----
October 21st, morning, Randy and Simon’s apartment
“I was worried.”
Randy’s sitting in the living room when Simon comes in. He’s chewing his nails and staring sightlessly at whatever crap is on the TV.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Okay,” Simon answers. “Do you want pasta for dinner or fish?”
-----
October 21st, evening, Randy and Simon’s apartment
Randy isn’t caught out until he’s sitting down to dinner. He’d spent all fucking evening concentrating so hard on not fidgeting, always meeting Simon’s eye, that he doesn’t even notice his mistake until it’s too late.
“So, Suddenly Last Summer was good?”
“Yeah, I liked it.”
“And your friend, Gale, he’s enjoying it?”
“Oh yeah, Gale loves the theatre.”
“He didn’t mind you sleeping on his couch?”
“No, no he was -” And he stops, because he’d said Scott’s couch. Not Gale’s. He flushes guiltily.
And that’s all it takes. Simon looks down at his plate, his eyes sad.
“You said Scott’s,” he says quietly.
Randy swallows, backtracks. “I, I meant …”
“For a good actor, Randy, you’re a terrible liar.”
Randy puts down his fork, presses the heel of his palm into his eye.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “God, I am so sorry.”
Simon shrugs, calmly carries on eating his meal. “Was tonight the first time?” he asks.
Randy can’t look at him just nods miserably.
“And he was the first one?”
Another nod.
Simon chews on his food, then carefully puts down his cutlery. He looks up at Randy, “Get out.”
“Simon, I -”
“Randy, please.” His voice is strained. “What would you do if you were me? Wait? Watch you slip away day by day, loving someone else? Knowing I can never truly have you? Or end it now?” His voice drops but his eyes lift to meet Randy’s. “While I still have some dignity.”
-----
October 21st, night, a phone booth, 7th avenue
Randy stands in a phone booth, his cheek pressed against the cool glass.
“Hey, Gale. It’s me. I need somewhere to stay tonight.”
-----
October 21st, room 106, Portland Square Hotel
“So, what happened?”
“He threw me out.”
Gale doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Randy, holds him tight. They stand like that in the middle of the room, rocking gently from side to side.
Randy stares sightlessly over Gale’s shoulder. “God, you should have seen him.”
Gale puts a hand to the small of Randy’s back, makes those useless shushing noises, but Randy doesn’t relax.
“He wasn’t mad,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing. He wasn’t even mad.”
---
(and then there was probably going to be angsty, yet loving, sex.)
---
“Will you be pissed if I talk about the good things?”
Randy’s eventually stopped shaking and Gale sits opposite him on the bed, cross-legged. They’ve ordered room service and it’s spread like a feast across the mattress
Randy picks at his chips and shakes his head. “No, go ahead.”
“I feel bad, real bad, about what happened between you and Simon but,” he pauses, eyes flicking up to meet Randy’s. “Well, you’re here and I can’t pretend I’m not glad about that. And you picked me, which is, you know, nice. It seems like, considering how much we fucked up over the years, things have turned out kind of okay.”
Randy gives him a smile, it’s small, but it’s something. He munches on his chips with slightly more enthusiasm.
(something. Probably sex.)
"Is there any food left?”
“Jesus, you still hungry?”
“Mm-hmm, what you got?”
Gale rummages around the left-overs, “Um, an apple?” He grins holding one up. “For the apple of my eye.”
Randy grimaces, “God, that was corny.”
Gale looks hurt. “Just trying to be nice.”
“Lucky I saw your body that first day on set before you had chance to attempt a pick-up line if that was anything to go by.”
“I’ll have you know, I have a number of very good pick-ups.”
Randy takes a bite of the apple, smirks. “Go on then. Hit me.”
“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”
Randy laughs. “That’s old.”
“Fine, if you’re so good at it, you have a go.”
“Okay… Was your daddy a thief? Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes.”
“That’s not romantic, you’re accusing my parents of felony!”
“Fine. Did your daddy play the trumpet? Because…because,” Randy laughs again and can hardly finish.
“Oh come on. Spit it out.”
“Because he sure made me horny!”
It deserves both eye roll and groan and Gale dutifully does both. “Seriously. Where do you get these from?”
Randy shrugs. “Hal. Go on, your turn.”
Gale thinks for a minute then grins. “I am the Love Pirate and I’m here for your booty?”
Randy laughs. “You’re terrible. How did you ever get laid? Come on, try something like …Your legs must be tired, you’ve been running through my thoughts all day.”
“Can I borrow a quarter? I need to ring your mom and say you won’t be home tonight.”
“There you go! Is there an airport nearby or is that just my heart taking off?”
“Um, um…what’s your star sign?”
“Lame, Gale, lame. Do you have a map? I keep getting lost in your eyes.”
“If you were a tear… I’d cry, no, I wouldn’t cry… oh crap.”
Randy crows triumphantly. “I win!”
Gale flumps his head back onto the pillow in defeat. “Whatever.”
Randy scooches closer. “And they’re all true baby.”
“Really?”
Randy’s face turns serious. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, not the thief and trumpet bit. But, yeah, stars, heart, whoom et cetera.”
Gale smiles at him, plants a soft kiss on his lips. “Good. Now promise to never ever say anything that cheesy in my presence again.”
“You started it.”
“I was being charming!”
“Was your daddy king for a day?”
“Randy-”
“He must have been because you’re my Prince Charming!”
“Randy, I swear…”
“Fine, fine. That was the last one. I promise.”
“Jesus, I suddenly have a new found respect for Simon.”
Randy stiffens in his arms and immediately Gale tries to take it back. “Shit, Randy, I didn’t… you know I…” He sighs. “Sorry.”
Randy takes a deep breath. “No, don’t apologize. I made my choice.” He swallows. “I’m sad that it ended with Simon the way it did, but that doesn’t mean that I’m sad that it’s over.” He looks up at Gale and says simply, “I want to be with you.”
Gale wordlessly takes his hand and squeezes it, a silent thanks. They stay like that, hand in hand, staring up at the shitty motel ceiling. Then Randy says, “Gale?”
“Mm.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Huh?”
“You know,” he looks at him. “When you fell from heaven?”
He has to dodge to avoid the power of Gale’s death stare.
TEH END.
Sadly, those are only the more coherant, readable fraction of the guhzillion fics that currently clog my folders. Consider it spring cleaning.