new fic: the only road
So I had put up the mostly-done version of this a few days ago, but I've added and revised a bit, so...this is part two of that James point-of-view thing. Part three will be coming soon, it's nearly done, so there will be a happy ending, I promise! But for now, here, have some angst and pining!James.
Title: The Only Road
Rating: PG for content, or R for occasional uses of the f-word.
Word Count: 1,527
Disclaimers: boys are not mine, I only appreciate them! Title and opening lines courtesy of the Dropkick Murphys’ “The Only Road”.
Summary/Notes: the sequel to Like A Song You Still Know From So Long Ago. Well, the first of two sequels. There’s a part three coming within the next day or two, because I can’t leave them without a happy ending! In this part, however, have some angst.
how could you choose a path
without knowing where you'd end up
where you came from was a time and place
that you had never been
is this the only road
can you fake your way through conversation
or just simply turn away
set a course for the desert sun
James agrees to do Arthur Christmas for a lot of reasons. He explains, in interviews, and to himself, that it’s because it’s easy work, that it’ll allow him to relax and spend some time closer to home, with his family. That it’s a film he could imagine taking Brendan to see, and that’s important: he wants to make movies that his son will enjoy. All of these things are true. None of them are lies.
What he doesn’t say is that he wants all of those things, desires that closeness, and needs to create something fun and joyful, because he doesn’t feel any of them anymore. Or because he does, but not the right way. Not the way he should. He loves his son in a way he’s never known he could love anything, and he looks at his wife and thinks that she’s his friend. She always will be. He’s not going to stop caring about her.
But she’s not the person who makes his heart skip a beat, when he finds a random photo lurking on his phone; her smiles don’t make him smile back, involuntarily, just because the world gets a little bit brighter at the thought.
After he signs on for Arthur Christmas, and they’ve finished up all the details of all the contracts, scripts start arriving, and then a flurry of notes announcing script changes, and then, sometimes, phone calls. One of these phone calls begins, at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning, with a horribly unbalancing question.
“Can you sing?”
“What? Sorry.”
“They want Arthur to sing. In the film. It’s jolly. Or something. Can you sing?”
“I…”
“We already have the scene written. But if you can’t, we can get someone else to be the singing voice, Disney does it all the time, we just need to know. Like now.”
And James shuts his eyes and takes a breath, standing there in his kitchen, barefoot, early-morning sunlight spilling across the floor around him, warming up his toes. Hears another, too-familiar, voice, laughing, and sees pale eyes, warming up for him, just for him: come on, you know this one, sing with me…
He says, “Yes, I can.”
“Great!” The line goes dead. He stares at his phone for a minute, and thinks, fuck, and then thinks, oh, god, breakfast, I’m supposed to be making breakfast, and then thinks, I’m actually going to do this, and almost smiles, and then remembers that he shouldn’t feel like he’s just made a life-altering decision, because it can’t mean anything, because it shouldn’t mean anything, because the reason he’s up this early making breakfast is because the person asleep in the other room is his wife.
He doesn’t say fuck again, in his head or out loud. He starts, automatically, finding ingredients for pancakes, instead.
In the end it doesn’t matter. He’s never been good at keeping secrets. He’s never liked secrets; he isn’t much for concealment. If the secret is something happy, the world should know, so they can join in on all the happy; if the secret isn’t happy, then maybe talking about it can help. Keeping wounds hidden only makes them fester.
He’s tried to keep this secret, though. They both know it isn’t a perfect marriage, too fast then, too far apart these days, but they’ve been making it work, and they’ve been faithful to each other mostly out of habit, because it’s comfortable and easy and they are still friends, and telling her this, when there’s nothing he can say to make it better, would only hurt everyone involved. If he doesn’t tell her, he only hurts himself. And he can live with that.
But he really isn’t good at secrets.
He sings Brendan to sleep, that night. He doesn’t mind singing at home, and his son seems to like it. Still incredible, really. He has a son. Imagine that.
Treacherously, his brain thinks at him: what if you could share this, could raise your son, with Michael? What if this was your life, and when you turned around he’d be there, in the doorway, smiling at you? And suddenly he forgets the next line of the song, even though he’s sung it a hundred times before.
He doesn’t cry. Not then. But he wants to.
Brendan, who is already asleep, doesn’t notice; James doesn’t try to keep singing, just turns around, and there is someone in the doorway, and it’s Anne-Marie.
She doesn’t ask him whether he’s all right. She just waits.
He says, “They want me to sing. In the movie. Arthur, I mean. They want Arthur to sing. They asked me whether I could sing. Today. This morning.”
He says, “I said yes.”
He says, “I’m sorry,” because she’ll know that he means it, if not why.
And she says, very quietly, “I saw that interview. Months ago.”
And then there really isn’t anything left to say.
He wants to whisper “I’m sorry” again, but he’s pretty sure that if he opens his mouth he’s finally going to cry, this time. The tears are right there. They burn. But they don’t fall.
She stands there framed by the doorway, light from the hallway coming up behind her like a halo, and says, “I know.” And then, “He’d better make you happy, or I’m going to have to kill him,” and then they both laugh, because it’s that or the tears.
If he’s honest with himself, he’s kind of hoping that, after the film premieres, Michael might see it. Or hear about it. And call him. Or turn up to say hello. Or something. He knows that that’s stupid, sappy and romantic, and after all he’d already turned Michael down, all those months ago. He’d had his chance, and he’d said no.
Michael’s probably moved on. Probably barely even thinks about him. Doesn’t call. Of course not.
The tabloids make mention of Zoe Kravitz and Keira Knightley, and offer sly insinuations about the size of certain aspects of Michael’s anatomy, and James gets used to all the little wounds, like tiny claw marks in his heart, under his skin, across his bones.
He’s already resigned himself to being hurt, one way or another, anyway. He can walk around bleeding internally if he has to. He’s a damn good actor. No one ever has to know.
The divorce doesn’t get much attention. They’re on good terms and still friends and there’s no drama for the paparazzi to chew on. He doesn’t even move out. They have one spare bedroom and one child, who they both love, after all.
He does leave, though, when he goes off to film Filth. Attempts to gain weight for the role. Fails miserably, because he’s just not hungry, these days. Food isn’t exciting. The world isn’t exciting. Kind of colorless. Flat. Except for the bright little starbursts of pain when he sees Michael’s name, or face, in a magazine, on a billboard, on a television screen, of course.
He still loves his job, though. He can still lose himself in a character, in a role. It helps. Especially when every single person in the make-up and wardrobe departments seems to be worried about him and the fact that he’s actually losing weight, and in between fussing over him and feeding him donuts, they’re covering him up with padding and a multitude of layers, and then hovering around to make sure he’s fine and not being smothered by fabric.
The concern is touching, actually. And it gives him something to think about, to try to reassure all the worried faces that he is, honestly, fine. If he can say it enough, can affirm it enough for other people, it might magically become true.
Besides, he can make those other people happy, just by letting them think they’re helping; it’s not hard to do, on his part, only a little extra acting. So he eats at least part of every single donut offered by the very earnest intern in charge of collecting his daily wardrobe, and tells her thank you, and watches her smile and blush and stammer a pleased response.
One night, or technically very early one morning, he checks his phone, after a long and grueling day of filming, and finds a missed call. He’s exhausted from running through fake crowds of extras on punishing pavement all day, and his knees kind of hurt because he’s not all that young anymore, and he just wants to shower and fall into tonight’s featureless hotel bed, and he looks at the screen and it announces that he’s missed a call. From Michael. From Michael’s cellphone. Two hours ago. No message.
He hits the button to call back. His fingers only shake slightly.
Michael doesn’t answer. It just rings. Then goes, inexplicably, to voicemail.
He makes himself wait five minutes. Tries again. Still voicemail.
He doesn’t leave a message. He doesn’t know what he could possibly say.
Michael doesn’t call again. James resigns himself to the knowledge that it was a mistake, a misdial, something stupid and unintentional, and over the next five days forgets to eat dinner on three occasions and breakfast on at least four.
Title: The Only Road
Rating: PG for content, or R for occasional uses of the f-word.
Word Count: 1,527
Disclaimers: boys are not mine, I only appreciate them! Title and opening lines courtesy of the Dropkick Murphys’ “The Only Road”.
Summary/Notes: the sequel to Like A Song You Still Know From So Long Ago. Well, the first of two sequels. There’s a part three coming within the next day or two, because I can’t leave them without a happy ending! In this part, however, have some angst.
how could you choose a path
without knowing where you'd end up
where you came from was a time and place
that you had never been
is this the only road
can you fake your way through conversation
or just simply turn away
set a course for the desert sun
James agrees to do Arthur Christmas for a lot of reasons. He explains, in interviews, and to himself, that it’s because it’s easy work, that it’ll allow him to relax and spend some time closer to home, with his family. That it’s a film he could imagine taking Brendan to see, and that’s important: he wants to make movies that his son will enjoy. All of these things are true. None of them are lies.
What he doesn’t say is that he wants all of those things, desires that closeness, and needs to create something fun and joyful, because he doesn’t feel any of them anymore. Or because he does, but not the right way. Not the way he should. He loves his son in a way he’s never known he could love anything, and he looks at his wife and thinks that she’s his friend. She always will be. He’s not going to stop caring about her.
But she’s not the person who makes his heart skip a beat, when he finds a random photo lurking on his phone; her smiles don’t make him smile back, involuntarily, just because the world gets a little bit brighter at the thought.
After he signs on for Arthur Christmas, and they’ve finished up all the details of all the contracts, scripts start arriving, and then a flurry of notes announcing script changes, and then, sometimes, phone calls. One of these phone calls begins, at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning, with a horribly unbalancing question.
“Can you sing?”
“What? Sorry.”
“They want Arthur to sing. In the film. It’s jolly. Or something. Can you sing?”
“I…”
“We already have the scene written. But if you can’t, we can get someone else to be the singing voice, Disney does it all the time, we just need to know. Like now.”
And James shuts his eyes and takes a breath, standing there in his kitchen, barefoot, early-morning sunlight spilling across the floor around him, warming up his toes. Hears another, too-familiar, voice, laughing, and sees pale eyes, warming up for him, just for him: come on, you know this one, sing with me…
He says, “Yes, I can.”
“Great!” The line goes dead. He stares at his phone for a minute, and thinks, fuck, and then thinks, oh, god, breakfast, I’m supposed to be making breakfast, and then thinks, I’m actually going to do this, and almost smiles, and then remembers that he shouldn’t feel like he’s just made a life-altering decision, because it can’t mean anything, because it shouldn’t mean anything, because the reason he’s up this early making breakfast is because the person asleep in the other room is his wife.
He doesn’t say fuck again, in his head or out loud. He starts, automatically, finding ingredients for pancakes, instead.
In the end it doesn’t matter. He’s never been good at keeping secrets. He’s never liked secrets; he isn’t much for concealment. If the secret is something happy, the world should know, so they can join in on all the happy; if the secret isn’t happy, then maybe talking about it can help. Keeping wounds hidden only makes them fester.
He’s tried to keep this secret, though. They both know it isn’t a perfect marriage, too fast then, too far apart these days, but they’ve been making it work, and they’ve been faithful to each other mostly out of habit, because it’s comfortable and easy and they are still friends, and telling her this, when there’s nothing he can say to make it better, would only hurt everyone involved. If he doesn’t tell her, he only hurts himself. And he can live with that.
But he really isn’t good at secrets.
He sings Brendan to sleep, that night. He doesn’t mind singing at home, and his son seems to like it. Still incredible, really. He has a son. Imagine that.
Treacherously, his brain thinks at him: what if you could share this, could raise your son, with Michael? What if this was your life, and when you turned around he’d be there, in the doorway, smiling at you? And suddenly he forgets the next line of the song, even though he’s sung it a hundred times before.
He doesn’t cry. Not then. But he wants to.
Brendan, who is already asleep, doesn’t notice; James doesn’t try to keep singing, just turns around, and there is someone in the doorway, and it’s Anne-Marie.
She doesn’t ask him whether he’s all right. She just waits.
He says, “They want me to sing. In the movie. Arthur, I mean. They want Arthur to sing. They asked me whether I could sing. Today. This morning.”
He says, “I said yes.”
He says, “I’m sorry,” because she’ll know that he means it, if not why.
And she says, very quietly, “I saw that interview. Months ago.”
And then there really isn’t anything left to say.
He wants to whisper “I’m sorry” again, but he’s pretty sure that if he opens his mouth he’s finally going to cry, this time. The tears are right there. They burn. But they don’t fall.
She stands there framed by the doorway, light from the hallway coming up behind her like a halo, and says, “I know.” And then, “He’d better make you happy, or I’m going to have to kill him,” and then they both laugh, because it’s that or the tears.
If he’s honest with himself, he’s kind of hoping that, after the film premieres, Michael might see it. Or hear about it. And call him. Or turn up to say hello. Or something. He knows that that’s stupid, sappy and romantic, and after all he’d already turned Michael down, all those months ago. He’d had his chance, and he’d said no.
Michael’s probably moved on. Probably barely even thinks about him. Doesn’t call. Of course not.
The tabloids make mention of Zoe Kravitz and Keira Knightley, and offer sly insinuations about the size of certain aspects of Michael’s anatomy, and James gets used to all the little wounds, like tiny claw marks in his heart, under his skin, across his bones.
He’s already resigned himself to being hurt, one way or another, anyway. He can walk around bleeding internally if he has to. He’s a damn good actor. No one ever has to know.
The divorce doesn’t get much attention. They’re on good terms and still friends and there’s no drama for the paparazzi to chew on. He doesn’t even move out. They have one spare bedroom and one child, who they both love, after all.
He does leave, though, when he goes off to film Filth. Attempts to gain weight for the role. Fails miserably, because he’s just not hungry, these days. Food isn’t exciting. The world isn’t exciting. Kind of colorless. Flat. Except for the bright little starbursts of pain when he sees Michael’s name, or face, in a magazine, on a billboard, on a television screen, of course.
He still loves his job, though. He can still lose himself in a character, in a role. It helps. Especially when every single person in the make-up and wardrobe departments seems to be worried about him and the fact that he’s actually losing weight, and in between fussing over him and feeding him donuts, they’re covering him up with padding and a multitude of layers, and then hovering around to make sure he’s fine and not being smothered by fabric.
The concern is touching, actually. And it gives him something to think about, to try to reassure all the worried faces that he is, honestly, fine. If he can say it enough, can affirm it enough for other people, it might magically become true.
Besides, he can make those other people happy, just by letting them think they’re helping; it’s not hard to do, on his part, only a little extra acting. So he eats at least part of every single donut offered by the very earnest intern in charge of collecting his daily wardrobe, and tells her thank you, and watches her smile and blush and stammer a pleased response.
One night, or technically very early one morning, he checks his phone, after a long and grueling day of filming, and finds a missed call. He’s exhausted from running through fake crowds of extras on punishing pavement all day, and his knees kind of hurt because he’s not all that young anymore, and he just wants to shower and fall into tonight’s featureless hotel bed, and he looks at the screen and it announces that he’s missed a call. From Michael. From Michael’s cellphone. Two hours ago. No message.
He hits the button to call back. His fingers only shake slightly.
Michael doesn’t answer. It just rings. Then goes, inexplicably, to voicemail.
He makes himself wait five minutes. Tries again. Still voicemail.
He doesn’t leave a message. He doesn’t know what he could possibly say.
Michael doesn’t call again. James resigns himself to the knowledge that it was a mistake, a misdial, something stupid and unintentional, and over the next five days forgets to eat dinner on three occasions and breakfast on at least four.