[FIC] Roads & Rivers (Michael/James) 1/2
Title: Roads and Rivers
Author: restlesspuppy
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, language, alcohol.
Disclaimer: I don't own eiher of these two lovely boys! I'm just using them and their gorgeous castmates for this story!
Summary: Prompt #30 - Michael and James meet on "Band of Brothers". Since then, it's been 10 years of UST - letters, e-mails, phone calls, texts and chance meetings in London - where they flirt but can never come around to telling each other how they really feel. It all comes to a head when Michael auditions for the part of Erik Lehnsherr. Would love it if somehow Michael defends James from the bully while shooting Band of Brothers: Link to article.
A/N: See my notes at the end. I have a lot to say for this piece c: ! Enjoy!
Part 1 - Part 2.
-
James is nervous on his first day.
Nervous and beside himself with excitement. It’s his first job. His first real role, in a television show. He’s not too sure what to make of it all - he’s part of a rather massive ensemble cast. Some American, some British, he’d even heard a few Scottish accents thrown into the mix as well. All of them young men, just like himself, barely a week over twenty-two, as green as they come.
Though, undoubtedly, his first day is the worst. He’s just changed into his uniform. World War Two from head to toe. He’s glancing over his reflection when it happens.
One of the blokes as kitted out as him bursts into laughter. Pointing at James from over his shoulder in his reflection, laughing, as if James as just told him the single most hilarious joke in the world. As if he’s never heard a joke before in his life (as if James has just sprouted a cock on his forehead). James turns around, looks at him, brow flickering with confusion.
“W-What’s... S-So funny?” He asks. But the bloke keeps laughing. One of the boys beside him - shorter, with sandy-blonde hair claps the laughing bloke on the shoulder.
“David.” He says, “Dave, he’s new, you… you can’t--”
“Mate,” another pipes up, “he looks better than your girlfriend--”
There’s more laughter, a roaring guffaw from the three, each with their eyes upon James. He feels his cheeks flush, with a mix of rage and humiliation. The worst part being that he doesn’t know who they are, he barely knows them, let alone what they find so hilarious, yet they show no sign of ceasing their laughter.
“James?” he turns, prepares a quick remark on the tip of his tongue, but it’s another man, one who looks no older than James himself, with a kind face. “Damian.” He says, simply, as introduction, “D’you wanna grab a coffee?”
James nods, leaves with him, though the roaring laughter follows him like an unpleasant storm cloud. No matter the kind conversation Damian draws him into.
-
The first few days, he lies low. Doesn’t make too many friends past Damian. He catches a glimpse of Tom Hanks from a distance on his third day (being given the new script by another man in a suit that James doesn’t recognize) but his brush with fame is short lived. He’s sitting in one of the trenches (‘ditches’ as the other boys call them), adjusting his plastic bayonet, and trying to blink through the dirt caking over his brow when he sees him.
He strides past him in easy, long steps. A relaxed grin on his lips, and he moves with a sort of casual elegance, an effortless ease as if he’s aware of every part of his body, and just how he’s moving. His thin and lean and graceful. He’s dressed in the same uniform as the one James had been assigned for his scenes tomorrow, and he looks good in the uniform. As if it was especially tailored for him. His hair falls in careless brown locks, his smile is thin but wide, his eyes are a soft shade of grey (or at least - they look it from back here).
Michael. His name is Michael.
That’s what Damian tells him.
There’s a brief moment when Michael looks his way, and James is struggling to blink the dirt out of his eyes - he sees Michael laugh from his distance, sees him wink at James. The gesture - and James can’t even begin to fathom why - strikes his heart cold. With astonishment. Michael laughs again, and turns away, follows the others in front of him out of sight behind the trailers.
He thinks Michael’s taking the piss. Like David Schwimmer and the others had. He tries to ignore it, and yet it has his stomach turning uncomfortably.
Michael Fassbender.
James is fairly certain he’s American. He speaks the accent so perfectly, he couldn’t be anything but. Though most of the blokes on set are yanks. James has been unable to weed out those few soft Scottish voices he’d been so certain he’d heard.
He sticks close to Damian from then on, who gives him a reliable out whenever David should be nearby. Damian himself isn’t exceptionally exciting or witty. He’s good conversation, if little more. He has no exceptional level of intelligence, and his acting skill is medicore at best. But he’s as good company as any.
James looks away when he catches David’s eye, turns back to Damian, and the beers between them.
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
He looks up.
“What?”
Damian gives him a soft smile. “Schwimmer’s a dick to everyone when they first start. It isn’t you.”
James says nothing, lifts his beer to his lips. Damian leans forward.
“At least… he was to me. Kept taking the piss out of the red hair.” He points to the red-orange tuft of hair curling over his forehead, “Asking if the floorboards matched the drapes, if you catch my drift.”
“That’s… awful.” James says, wrinkles his nose in distaste. Damian nods.
“Ignore him.” He says, simply, bringing his beer back to his lips, “He’ll get bored of it eventually. Move on to the next new guy.”
James decides to take his word for it - and follow his advice. Ignore him, and wait for him to move on.
-
David doesn’t move on.
They’re only a minor part of the series, James isn’t required for many scenes, and they all share a narrow hall lined with highschool-esque lockers. They’re larger, though. More spacious than the ones James had used when he had been a lad. But he’s done changing. Out of his costume and back into the usual jeans and t-shirt that he normally wears home when it happens.
A shoulder rams between his shoulder blades, sends him pitching forwards into his locker with a loud bang! that has the others on the opposite end of the hall glancing up and down at him. He stumbles to regain his footing, to glance around angrily, looking for the culprit.
“Shit, sorry!” It’s David. James’ anger dies like a flame under ice.
“God, watch it Dave.” It’s the sandy-blonde bloke - James has heard the others call him ‘Nathan’, “Didn’t anyone teach you to be polite to girls?” he slings an arm carelessly over David’s shoulders.
“I apologized!” David tells him, regarding James for a moment longer (who steadies himself against the door to his locker carefully, looking affronted, and rather hurt), “S’not my fault. I stumbled. Someone’s arse just takes up too much room.” He quirks a brow at James. Nathan laughs, and leads the pair of them off.
James’ cheeks are blazing. He keeps his head down, stuffs his jumper back into his bag and picks up his cell phone, lying on the floor, knocked there after he had fallen into his locker, he shoves it into his pocket and slams the metal door shut, turning to leave the awful half-silence of the change-hall behind him, but he runs dead into someone’s chest.
“Whoa.”
He glances up - meets with those faded grey-blue-green… whatever eyes, and his heart stops.
“You all right?” He feels a hand on his arm, just above his elbow, a soft, reassuring touch.
But he says, nothing. Pushes past Michael, strides hurriedly away from him, because he can’t stand to listen to another American accent any longer. He wants to go home - he just wants to go home.
-
It’s as if David has made it his personal goal to make each day on set difficult for James.
What made it worse was that James had been a fan. Had watched ‘Friends’ regularly, whenever it had been on television. But now? The show came on and his stomach would churn each time the scene cut to David. He hated that David had been one of the stars he’d truly been looking forward to meeting.
What had he done? Had he said something? Looked at someone wrong? Breathed in the wrong place? What could he have possibly done?
Honestly - his ego doesn’t need this. Not right now.
-
He goes onto set Tuesday morning afraid of seeing David.
He stares at his reflection in the giant studio mirror for a long while. Looking at his too-red lips, at his wide blue eyes, wondering what on earth it is about him that David sees as something to tease. He’s never found himself particularly feminine looking. He has a strong jaw, a strong brow-line. Honestly, he’s merely perplexed.
There’s a wide ‘waiting’ room. Or, so the others have begun calling it. When they weren’t needed on set, they’d come here. Two vending machines were pressed to the far wall, one filled with energy bars, pretzels, cookies and chips, the other filled with soft drinks, from cola to creaming soda. There was a coffee machine to the right, and a massive mirror for practicing their one-liners on the far left wall. It was perhaps once a ballet studio, with a pole lining the opposing wall, and cold hardwood floors.
James drops his gaze from the mirror and turns away, striding back towards the pole and setting both hands upon it, leaning upon it. Closing his eyes for a brief moment as he hears the far door open, and the boys on set returning for a break. They congregate by the vending machines and coffee table. James doesn’t look up.
Not until he hears a voice curtly calling his name. His head snaps up, and he jerks around to look.
“Give us a move!” It’s David, James wets his lips nervously.
“C’mon. Bet you’d have time to practice. You spend enough time in here as it is. Barely need you on set, anyway.” Nathan nods at him, “I honestly think it’d be a good career move for you, James!”
“Bugger off.” James murmurs. Turns away from them.
“Oh, come on, mate.” Nathan strides towards him, claps a hand to his shoulder and wheels him around. The pole digs into the small of James’ back. “We’re just having a joke, c’mon, give us a move. It’ll be a laugh.”
“I said, bugger off.” James tells him, meets his gaze, tone entirely serious.
“Relax, McAvoy.” David is walking towards him now, reaching out to give one of the navy pins on his uniform a flick, “It’s just a joke, you can laugh.”
James looks at him.
“Now dance,” He grins, gives James a gentle shove, “You’d be surprised at the people who come through here, they might spot some real talent in you!”
James turns away, tries to walk away - weeding through to their left, but a new bloke James hasn’t seen before blocks off his exit.
“Doesn’t hurt to smile. Don’t you find anything funny?” David asks him.
“I don’t think he finds you particularly amusing.”
The voice is cool. David glances around, as does Nathan, and the other bloke with the dark hair that had prevented James’ escape follows their gaze.
Michael stands by the mirror, a bag of pretzels in his hand, looking unimpressed.
“Michael!” Nate greets him as if he’s a long-time friend, with a wide grin - that Michael doesn’t return.
“Look, I don’t really know what you’re trying to achieve here, but I think you’re wasting your time. You ought to be going over your script, Schwimmer, you forgot a shocking amount of lines in that last scene.” David opens his mouth, but Michael continues on. Striding easily towards them, “and I’ll have you know that I did ballet for a fair amount of time myself, and it’s incredibly beneficial - James?” He reaches out, takes James’ arm (the very same arm he had touched just days ago) and tugs him forwards, despite James’ palpable reluctance.
He leads him away with that, they step right on out of the hall and Michael continues on in their tense sort of silence until they reach the cafeteria, reserved for longer breaks (like the one James was on).
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did.” Michael says, “I don’t care. Say what you will, David’s a prick. I’m not gonna stand idly by while he tears the new blokes to shreds.”
James stares at him, watches as Michael lets go of him at last, and takes a seat at one of the round tables, gesturing for James to sit opposite him. The cafeteria is rather large, usually packed to the rafters at lunch or dinner breaks, even hours after breakfast when the caffeine began to wear off. But now - it was relatively empty. A few others sat at the tables closer to the steaming food behind it’s glass display.
James sits opposite him. Chews his bottom lip. Unsure what he ought to say.
“I--… th-thank you.” He murmurs. Supposes a thanks is in order.
“Don’t mention it.” Michael waves a hand, “I can’t stay long - help me out here.” he places the pretzel packet between them, and James reaches out mechanically for one.
“He’s done that before?” He asks, meaning David.
“Yeah.” Michael nods, meets James’ gaze, “He’s actually driven some of the others right off set with his bullshit.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t going to let him do that with you. It’s not fair.”
“W-Why?” James asks.
“You did nothing to earn that sort of behavior. He was just… being such a prick.” He shakes his head, then reaches down for his pocket, withdraws a cellphone from within, “Tell you what - give me your number. Give us a buzz the next time he talks to you and I’ll kick is ass back to ‘Friends’.”
“You w-want me to -... what?” but despite his confusion, James is removing his phone from his pocket.
“Give me your number.” Michael says, and then his lips split back into a toothy grin. A wide smile that ought to be terrifying. Except it isn’t.
“Here,” He takes James’ phone from him, and taps away at the keys, “I’m barely joking, all right James? I don’t want him spreading any more of his bullshit. This isn’t okay. It isn’t high school anymore.”
He finishes with a triumphant smile, and passes James’ phone back to him.
“Now give us yours.”
James obliges, watches Michael program the number into his phone with graceful taps of his fingers. But shortly thereafter, he checks the time, tells James he has to be on set, and departs with a cheery; “Call me if you need me.” and James, armed with his secret weapon, exits the cafeteria with a confidence he’d barely carried before.
-
August 10. 2001
-
It’s the last week on set. The mood is overall… relaxed.
Evidently, Michael has left a lasting impression on David. He’s kept somewhat of a distance from James, held back from making a crude remark when he passes James sitting with Damian for coffee the day before his last scene.
But of course, it doesn’t last.
“Bit tight in there, James?” his drawling voice drifts towards him easily, he plucks at the sleeve of James’ uniform. “Lay off the vending machines, eh? You might be able to button that thing a little easier.”
“Wh--..”
“Isn’t that what they say? A minute on the lips--”
“--a lifetime on the hips!” Nathan finishes for him, and they both erupt into laughter. Giving James a brief escape route. He makes to leave, but a hand lands on his arm and wheels him back around.
“Take a joke, mate. Take a goddamn joke. Loosen up a little - if you can. Maybe you ought to get the bigger pa--”
“Oi. That’s enough.”
James’ head whips around, and Michael is stalking towards them, giving David a shove, pushing him back, pushing him away from James.
“I’ve had it with listening to your shit. Take your fat mouth somewhere else.” Michael hisses, “It isn’t welcome here, and neither are your goddamn sheep.” He jerks his head in Nathan’s direction. There’s a soft murmur of agreement from the blokes to James’ left. He blinks in quiet surprise at that.
“We’re just joking around,” David says, “having a laugh, you lot are all very high strung.”
“Does it look like we’re laughing?” Michael gestures briefly to the others by the studio mirror, “No one is laughing but you, Schwimmer.” This time, his arm goes around James’ shoulders, “Take your shit and go. Before I let someone who really matters know what you’re trying to do here.” and with that, he leads James away.
Distantly; he hears the door closing. Glances over his and Michael’s shoulders, and David, Nathan and the bloke with the dark hair are all gone.
-
There’s a party at the end of the week. James goes. Meets up with Damian there, but sees no sign of Michael. Not until he’s about to leave. All he has time for is a brief goodbye - a short, but lingering embrace by the door to the bar.
“Keep in contact, alright?”
“Yeah, definitely.” James tells him, voice muffled in his shoulder.
“I mean it.” Michael gives him a final squeeze, before letting go. Pressing into the cheering crowd with a half-drunk glass of beer in his hand.
-
James doesn’t see him again for a long time.
He all but forgets who Michael Fassbender is until he’s riding his Vespa down a London street, helmet on, but vizor up. It’s not too cold, he can still feel his nose and it’s a mild day, at best. He has his jacket on, and a scarf wound around his neck, gloved hands curled carefully around the handles of the bike, dressed in his jeans and scuffed shoes, he’s the very picture of casual ease.
He barely hears the sound of another bike pulling up not three feet from his own.
“James!”
He blinks, glances around. There’s a man sitting perched upon a white vespa, black helmet down, obscuring half his face, although there’s something vaguely familiar about that smile…
He’s dressed in a leather jacket, baggy jeans, and old steel-capped boots.
“James - James, it’s Michael!”
James blinks at him, confused, a fan? Oh fantastic, he thinks, now they’re expecting lovely conversations at traffic lights--
“It’s Fassbender!” he calls, and comprehension dawns.
“Michael!” he shouts back, face cracking into a wide smile.
But the lights change, and the Holden in front of James lurches into drive, he gestures to the side of the road, and Michael nods. They pull out of the lights, and head up the road - he hears Michael just behind him as he pulls up outside a small ‘Pret-a-Manger’. He hears the exhaust pipe of Michael’s bike pop to a halt as he clambers off his own vehicle and slips his helmet from his head. He’s barely set two feet on the ground when he’s engulfed into a tight embrace. He hears Michael laughing.
“Jesus bloody Christ, it’s been ages!”
“Shit - y-you’re Irish?” James draws back from him, and Michael bursts into laughter.
“The accent was for the role, mate. I thought you knew that!”
“Christ, no.” James laughs too, and Michael hauls him in again for another warm embrace. He smells ashy and woodsy, like the exhaust form his bike and old tobacco and something vaguely home like. He smells safe, he smells warm. He’s something James wants to bottle up for cold days by a rainy windowsill.
“Bloody hell, mate. What are you up to these days?” Michael asks him, drawing back to hold James at an arms length. All James can do is smile at him. Michael looks older than he remembers, it’s been almost two years. He has a five o’clock shadow blooming, he looks rather tired.
“Same old.” James shrugs, “I ah… I actually got cast in a film with Anne Hathaway for next year--”
“Get out. Shit, that’s excellent.” Michael grins at him, clapping him brusquely on the shoulder, “If she gives you any trouble, you know who to call, don’t you?”
James laughs, “I don’t think that’ll be a problem this time.”
Michael just shrugs, “You never know.”
James shakes his head, “You look good, too--”
“Yeah? Good!” Michael says, “Been shooting this one film ah… it’s about the spartan warriors, I had better look good.”
James grins, steps in to press a hand to Michael’s abdomen, laughing when he feels the older man respond by flexing his muscles. He doesn’t feel much through the leather jacket, but he feels enough. Enough warm firmness that sends a sharp thrill down his spine.
“Keep an eye out though, s’called ‘300’.” He nods.
“I will.” James tells him.
“You know, I gave you my number for a reason.” Michael says, “I expect you to call.”
“I--…”
“Don’t go breaking my heart, James.” He laughs, grins, jokes. “I gotta run. But make sure you do call. If you don’t, I might be forced to confiscate that pathetic vespa.” He nods at James’ off-blue and white bike.
“Oi! How is yours any better?” James shoots back. Michael just laughs. Slips his helmet back on.
“Stay safe, James!” He calls, “Hope to hear from you!” and he settles himself back upon his bike, fingers curling around the handles, pressing it into drive and turning off with a final short wave at James. He watches him, watches until Michael turns off the main road and vanishes down the street.
-
James watches ‘300’ when it is released. Goes to the cinema with several of his friends on the premiere night, and is left rather speechless. Amongst the blood and violence, there had been an exceptionally lean and scantily-clad Michael. Leaping and fighting like some sort of shadowy panther. Some sort of big cat stalking prey. He had looked predatory.
James barely understands himself at all. Barely understands the response that the movie is having upon him. He returns to his apartment, still struck speechless, and watches re-runs of cooking shows until he can’t quite stand it any longer. He takes a shower.
It’s accidental. The hot water cascades down over him like wandering fingertips, glides over him in the most perfect of ways, reprimands ghostly touches of something he shouldn’t let himself think about. But he does. Remembers that cold grin, that stringy hair, those lean muscles.
Closes a hand around his aching, straining, cock.
Remembers that gravelly voice, the way he had carried himself, how little he had been wearing. His mind wanders further, to how those rough hands might feel against him, pressing open his thighs, brushing between his legs. How that voice might sound, whispering in his ear, biting down on his earlobe. Encouraging him in hoarse breaths.
He squeezes, strokes himself with growing eagerness, presses his back into the icy tiles of the shower wall, presses his other palm to his abdomen, bites down on his lower lip as he imagines Michael sinking to his knees, giving him that same leering, predatory grin, and swallowing him down.
He imagines fucking into Michael’s mouth, having him staring up at James, eyes wet from holding back his gag reflex, and he comes with a broken cry. He comes thick and hard and fast in wet spurts that reach the glass door of his shower. He watches his release mingle with the water, swirl and rush down the drain. Gone.
What did he just do?
-
Michael sends him an email later that night - telling him to be outside his complex at ten o'clock the following night. Or his vespa would 'pay the price'.
-
True to his word, Michael shows up at James’ place the next night, ten o’clock on the dot.
He’s not on his vespa, but rather, he pulls up in a simple black convertible. He’s standing there, leaning against the driver seat door with jeans and a white button-down, with that same leather jacket thrown over the top when James opens his front door.
“Honestly, this is well overdue.” Michael tells him when James draws near.
“You’re forgetting that we’re both big time movie stars, mate.” James says, with a grin. Michael laughs.
“I saw your film. ‘Starter for 10’.” Michael says, easily. “You should grow your hair out more often. It suits you when it’s longer.”
“What?” James says, rounds the car to the passenger seat and tugs the door open.
“It looked adorable, dare I say.” Michael says, with a soft laugh.
“Christ, did you just call me adorable?”
“I believe I did.” Michael flashes him a grin, “Get in the damn car.”
James returns the grin, and tugs open the door, swiftly.
They drive to a pub Michael frequents fairly often, one James hasn’t been to, and one that’s named something as odd as the man beside him. They each order beers, begin talking, James tries to laugh off Michael’s remark about what a lovely faun he made while James focuses on the ridiculous costume Michael had been stuffed into for ‘300’.
By his third beer, James is beginning to feel the effects.
“I still remember that you did ballet, you know.” He tells him.
Michael laughs.
“I’m not surprised to be quite honest, but really. It’s fine. Doesn’t bother me. I’m confident in my sexuality.”
James laughs. “Is that right?”
“Yes. I’ve even read ‘Winnie the Pooh’. Thank you - and enjoyed every word.”
“No, no.” James assures him, waving a hand, “I agree. The book is brilliant.”
“Isn’t it?”
More laughter. More jokes. More beer, until the night becomes rather blurred.
James spills a glass on himself at one point, down the front of his shirt, until he’s all but shivering beneath it.
“C’mon mate, take it off.” Michael is telling him, leading him to the bathroom, “Pretty sure I’ll get sued or something if you get sick.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works--”
“Off. C’mon. You can have my jacket.”
He’s tugging the t-shirt up, urging it over James’ shoulders, he lifts his arms, lets the wet material slide from his person, until he’s standing there in little more than a partly transparent singlet shirt.
He thinks he sees Michael staring, eyes unfocussed, expression sincere as he pushes James towards the hand dryer, and tugs the hem of the singlet out under the gusting warm air. James takes over, thinks he must really be more drunk than Michael. Part of a pink nipple is visible through the damp material, but James barely notices.
The bathroom door is pushed open again, and a burly bloke with plugs in his earlobes strides in. Almost as if in reactive response, Michael shrugs out of his leather jacket, and helps James into it. As if he needs to cover him up. He bundles the shirt into his arms, and leads James out with a quiet, “C’mon. It’s getting late.”
They drive back quickly, Michael remains in a tense silence. James thinks back to their evening, doesn’t remember Michael drinking more than two glasses. He isn’t drunk. He isn’t drunk at all. Here James has just embarrassed himself.
“Right to get inside?” Michael asks, as they pull up outside James’ apartment complex.
“Yeah, yeah. Definitely. Thanks - ah… h-had a good night.”
“Me too, James.” Michael smiles at him, for the first time in what feels like hours, and James slides from the driver’s seat. He’s still drunk when he clambers into the elevator and watches the numbers flick up to his floor. He flops down face first onto his bed, and buries his nose into the collar of Michael’s jacket. Inhales his scent, and moves both hands to his belt. Hurriedly working on the buckle until he has it loose. Pushing his jeans to his knees, and winding a hand around his cock, as if he can’t get to it fast enough.
There’s no build up, no idle and playful teasing. He sets a furious pace. Closes his eyes and loses himself in Michael’s woodsy, ashy scent. Remembers how he had imagined those rough hands feeling. Imagines them closing around his pale hips, tugging him back onto a thick cock. A thick, hot cock. Swears he almost hears Michael huffing out grunts by his ear as he pushes mercilessly into James.
He wouldn’t be gentle. James can’t imagine him being gentle. Imagines their pace to be spine breaking as he brushes a thumb over the head, that sends a shudder through him, he’s close. The alcohol is hazing his mind over, and he’s gasping, crying out softly into the collar of the jacket and then he comes - he comes quick and fast and it’s nothing like the last time. It’s hard. So hard it leaves his head spinning. He slumps forwards, pressing his mess between him and his bed sheets and…
He falls asleep.
-
James wakes up with a hangover that could slay a walrus and Michael’s jacket still on his shoulders.
He reeks of beer and sex. The first thing he does, shortly after drinking his weight in icy water, is take a long, hot shower. He clambers back into bed to sleep his headache off - but something keeps him up. He shuffles out of the sheets to retrieve Michael’s jacket from the doorway, he slips it into his bare shoulders.
He falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillows, enveloped in Michael’s scent as if his arms were around him.
-
June 26, 2006
-
Except Michael never does pay his ‘ransom’ and James’ vespa is not threatened again.
Every now and then, James will think of Michael. He’ll think of his toothy smile, he’ll remember his faded Irish accent and eyes that could never settle on a colour, he’ll remember how his eyes had darkened when James’ shirt had gone transparent with beer, he’ll think that maybe that small gesture had meant something more…
But he’ll then tell himself he’s imagining it. And he’ll decide it’s time to forget about the Irish actor who had once shared a packet of pretzels with him.
-
Two more years pass.
And then Michael comes out with a new film.
A film entitled ‘Hunger’.
-
James goes to the premiere on his own, unsure what to expect. He’s heard little about the film other than that Michael stars, and that the older man was currently holidaying in Australia.
But the film strikes him to the core, he walks out shortly after Michael’s first scene in the hospital. The mere opening had been impossible for James to watch - and he honestly simply felt ill.
It had hurt. Seeing Michael so thin, so frail… the man who had once pushed a bully from James with such force that the man had stumbled back, it was hard to see him like this. To see him like this and know that he was still that same person.
James calls him.
He’s so worried he calls him.
He doesn’t know what else to do.
Michael picks up on the third ring.
“James?”
“Hello to you, too.” James says, a breathless smile on his lips, “Are you all right?”
“What? Yes, I… I’m fine.”
He sounds fine.
“Why? James - where are you?”
“I’m… I-… I j-just saw ‘Hunger’.” he says, neglects to mention that he’s still inside the bathroom of the cinema, that he’s bent over the porcelain-white sink.
“Oh.” He hears silence on the other end of the line, “What did you think?”
James opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water several times before he manages to speak.
“I… d-didn’t like it. I… you… w-why did you do that to yourself?” He asks, in a breathless rush.
“What?”
“Y-You were so thin, I-… I didn’t… I don’t--… please, just… just t-tell me y-you’re better.”
“Slow down, James. It’s all right. I’m fine. I promise you.” a pause, “Why do you think I’m not in London? I’m coming back in a few weeks.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll call you.” He says, his voice sounds hushed, as if he doesn’t want to be overheard, “The first time I hear from you in months - shit, years, and you sound like you’ve seen the devil. Christ, James. You never cease to astound me.” he chuckles.
James manages to smile, weakly.
“Make sure you call.”
“I will. Take care of yourself James, and don’t worry about me.” another short laugh, “I’m fine. Honestly.”
Shortly thereafter, he hangs up. Glares at his reflection over the banister and leans down to splash cold water over his face, to cool down. He steps back out, but really - all he can think about is going home.
-
April 10. 2008
-
True to his word, a month later. Michael calls.
Instead of visiting a bar this time, Michael invites him over to his place, and James goes. He’s sold the vespa, a year ago. Replaced it with an incredibly simple car, shiny and red - the colour had been quite a draw. Michael was quick to point it out.
“Red, really?” He says, as James approaches.
“What?” James strides towards him, lets Michael tug him into another one of his almost-familiar warm embraces, “Every other car on the road is grey, white or black, I… w-wanted something different.”
Michael chuckles, and releases him. “I suppose you’re right.” He says easily, gesturing for James to come inside. He does. Michael’s apartment is studio-esque, but very, very large. The carpets are white, the ceiling his white, but the walls are soft greys and blacks. Blended in with soft, dark, leafy patterns. His furniture suits the theme accordingly, and James concludes that Michael must have hired a decorator. But of course, he doesn’t mention it. Nor does he mention that he doesn’t quite like the place. It seems… empty. Cold. Professional. Not relaxed. Not like a home ought to be.
But Michael leads him towards the mini bar.
“Martini?”
“I’d love one.” James tells him, hopping up onto one of the stools. Still taking in the place around him. Comparing the nooks and crannies to his own place. With clothing strewn across the floors, with a wide television and walls that clashed with his off-red couch. With rugs on top of carpet because he hated floorboards that much, and a kitchen that actually looked used…
But moreover, Michael looks healthy. He looks like himself again. He’s put weight on. He’s nowhere near as thin as he had been.
“You look good.” James tells him softly.
Michael’s gaze flickers up to him from the blender, and he smiles.
“Thank you.” He responds, just as quietly. “But really, did you enjoy the film?”
“I…” James swallows, “I didn’t quite ah… g-get through it.”
“You didn’t?” Michael frowns at him, and flicks the blender on. It’s surprisingly quiet.
“No, I… walked out… t-towards the end but… I couldn’t…”
“Couldn’t… what?” Michael frowns, setting out their glasses.
“I couldn’t… w-watch you…” he shakes his head, ducks his gaze down, looks to his lap. “...not in pain, n-not… when you were so… so thin. I just… it hurt.”
There’s a pause. A moment of silence where the grinding blender dies off, and he doesn’t hear Michael flick the lid open again. He looks up. The older man is beside him, reaching out, pressing a finger beneath James’ chin, tilting his face up.
“...and you make it sound as if watching ‘The Last King of Scotland’ was easy.” he says, smoothly. Hand falling away before James even has a chance to process it’s warmth.
“W-What? That was--”
“Years ago, I know.” Michael shrugs, rounding the island again to pour the liquid into their glasses. “I never had the heart to tell you that watching a group of thugs hang you by your skin from the ceiling was too hard for me.” he glances up, grins briefly, “I couldn’t finish it then. I’d told myself I’d give it another go later on. Maybe after a few beers. But that just made it harder. I watched it again a few weeks ago and - Christ, James… it was impossible. It was excellent.”
“Thank you.” James says, glancing away, cheeks warming at hearing an actor like Michael praise his performance.
Michael lifts both glasses, holds one between them for James to take. He does, they pause briefly to click their glasses together, before he brings his own to his lips.
“Christ - that’s fantastic.” James says, raising his martini deftly, “You have a gift, Michael.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Michael makes a brief show of waving it off with a bashful smile, but they both laugh.
“We really ought to do this more often.” James murmurs.
“I know.”
“It’s difficult.” He says, absently tracing the rim of the glass with a fingertip, “There’s a lot happening for both of us, we--”
“Ought to star in a movie together?”
James laughs.
“Imagine that.”
“It would be exceptional.” Michael grins at him, rounds the bar to sit in the stool beside James. “and I believe you owe me a jacket.”
“You’re paying ransoms with martini’s?”
-
August 9. 2008.
James is scared. Beside himself with fear - and inexplicably, Michael is the first person he finds himself calling.
“Jesus… hello?” His voice is thick and gravelly as he picks up, as if he’s just woken up. James wouldn’t be surprised. It’s four in the morning in London.
“Michael.” He hisses.
“Hello to you, too - Christ, do you know what time it is, James?”
“Not on your end.” He says quickly, “I just - I need someone to talk to.”
“Mmm…” He grunts noncommittally, blind sighting James’ palpable fear entirely. “Why?”
“I’m--… some… s-someone’s following me.”
That gets Michael’s attention.
James practically hears him bolting upright in his bed.
“What?”
“I don’t know - he’s been following me for two blocks now, I think he was at the bar -”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah.” James glances over his shoulder quickly, the figure is still there, almost a yard back from him. A bloke. A tall bloke.
“Fuck, James. Why are you alone? Where are you? I’m coming--”
“I’m in the States.” James cuts in, “I just… I just n-needed someone to talk to--”
“Where are you headed? Don’t go back to your hotel.” Michael advises him, all traces of sleep gone from his voice, “Call a taxi. Get them to pick you up a couple blocks down and keep walking, don’t give him a chance to catch up.”
“Michael--”
“When did you notice him?”
“He… I was in the bar. I ordered a beer, and he was… oh - I don’t know, he was at the bar. He left at the same time as me, and he hasn’t stopped following me since-”
“Who did you go out with?”
“Just with Marc Warren a-and some of his mates, but I said I’d be fine walking back, it’s not far.” Marc was admittedly a truly hilarious bloke. A cast member alongside James while filming ‘Wanted’, they’d gotten along immensely well. He’d been as star-struck as James by Morgan Freeman and Angelina Jolie. They’d bonded. He’d invited James out for drinks before he was due to catch his flight back to London. He’d had a good night - up until now.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“Michael - please calm down, it’s all right--” James tries.
“No, I’m completely serious, mate. I want you to hang up and call the goddamn cab. Ring me back the moment you’re done. Is he still following you?”
James glances back again, “Yes. He’s… h-he’s gotten a bit closer.”
“Call the fucking cab.” and then the line goes dead.
James chews his bottom lip, lifts his phone from his ear and dials quickly. He tells the cab to pick him up two streets down, they tell him they’ll be no more than three or so minutes. The station is nearby. He hangs up, but before he can tap into his phonebook, the screen lights up;
Michael calling…
He answers.
“Michael? I called.” He tells him.
“Good. Keep walking.” He sighs, frustrated, irritated - no doubt - that he isn’t there.
“...ah… Michael?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m sorry. F-For calling you, I mean.”
“It’s alright.” Michael assures him, he exhales sharply - James imagines him sitting up in bed, perhaps shirtless, with white sheets crumpled about his waist, hair sleep-churned, the hazy moonlight leaking through his curtains - smoking. He would be. Any time something got to him he would reach for his pack of cigarettes, no matter how much he assured James he was quitting. It was a quick and easy route for stress relief, and James bites his tongue from saying anything at all.
“I’m glad you did. Don’t apologize.” Michael says, then, “I’d rather be woken up to talk to you than hear that you’ve vanished off the streets when I turn on the news tonight.”
James laughs, dryly.
“When do you get back to London, anyway?”
“The day after tomorrow.” James says, glancing up and down the road for cars before crossing. “Can’t come soon enough, I’m not liking it here much.”
“Yeah?”
“Everyone is incredibly loud.” He says, raising his voice slightly because the bloke behind him is getting too close. He’s nothing more than a couple meters behind James now, and the fear is swelling in his stomach as he frantically tries to think of a way to defend himself. His fists, they could do. His sister had once kicked him in the groin so hard he’d been unable to walk for a good couple of hours - perhaps that was a better option. “It’s too wet, and it doesn’t snow.” he says, tone shockingly level despite his mounting anxiety.
He makes it into the street, and the cab is there, waiting. He trots into a jog, “Cab’s here.”
“Good.” Michael sounds… more relaxed already, “Text me when you get home, alright? I don’t care what bloody time it is, I want to know when you’re home.”
“All right.” James says, astonished at how sincere Michael sounds.
“Be careful, James.”
“I will. Sweet dreams.” He chuckles, hears Michael manage a laugh.
“You too.”
The line goes dead, and James tugs open the door to his cab the moment the bloke reaches his heels, but he’s in, swinging the door closed after him, leaving the guy with nothing more to do but continue along down the street. His pace slower, eyes still on James’ taxi.
He breathes a soft sigh of relief, slumping back into the middle seat of the cab, closing his eyes for a short moment. Replaying Michael’s hushed but worried words to himself. Trying to comprehend just why they make his chest swell and his heart surge against his ribcage. But the taxi driver interrupts his thoughts.
“Where to?”
-
Part two ->