Fic (Complete): Down To Zero (NC-17, Glee RPS, Chris Colfer/Darren Criss) 1 of 2
Happy holiday of choice! Have some giftporn!
Title: Down To Zero
Author: Cimmerians
Fandom/Pairing: Glee RPS, Chris Colfer/Darren Criss
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex
Word Count: 11,134
Summary: Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out.
Gratitudes: I am grateful to AubreyLi, as always, for her incredible generosity and kindness to a struggling author; and for once again letting me peek at her sexy, sexy brain. I am also grateful to Lil-Lis for in-process feedback and cheerleading, and to Simone for being so damn beautiful and smart and sweet, and for bringing grace into my life every day. Finally, gratitude to my beloved Andrew, for last-minute readership and affirmation.
***
The red carpet gauntlet (the one he always thought of-very privately-as ‘the media pig feeding trough’) was the usual frenzy of popping-flashing-yelling, and it was a profound relief to duck past the guard and around the corner, through the chocked-open double doors and into the (comparatively) dim, quiet hallway leading to the event. Chris took a deep, relieved breath and let his face start to relax out of the controlled rictus he’d come to think of as ‘cherubic smile #3’-only then he almost ran headlong into Darren, who was slouched against the wall with his hands jammed deep in his pockets and a look on his face that Chris associated with foxholes in war movies.
“Hey,” he said, and Darren met his gaze, and there was something about the look in his eyes that brought it all back-what it was like when it was new, all the screaming and all the demands and all the pressure, what it was like to suddenly be a mile deep underwater with no idea whether or not your air was going to hold out for the duration. “Oh, hey. You okay?”
Darren smiled and shrugged, floating up off the wall with effortless grace. “Yeah, I’m… that was amazing, it was… intense.” His pupils were dilated. “I’m pretty sure I acted like the world’s biggest flaming dork out there, but it was just…”
“You were fine.” He hadn’t seen a thing, but. “It’s hard, at first.”
“That-but awesome, you know, I’m not, uh, ungrateful, I just… it was hard, kind of hard, with all that going on, to feel like a, like a person, and not a… commodity.”
They had been polite with each other, so far. Polite and friendly, and not much beyond that (it seemed safest, given how much was presently unknown about the future, now that things seemed to be changing on a daily basis). But that-that was an oddly raw statement, oddly vulnerable, and also more than a little close to home. Chris surprised himself by reaching out-it felt strange and risky and foreign to him to do it, but he did it, he reached out and caught Darren’s hand (cold, and a little clammy, just the way his own hands had been for the first year or so) and squeezed it, briefly, and then let go. “That prize-heifer feeling,” he said, and the look in Darren’s eyes changed-all at once, right at him, frank and direct and connected and… grateful. “You get used to it.”
Darren smiled, and even in the low light, Chris could see him blushing. “That’s-perfect, prize heifer, yeah.” He shook his head, his smile shading from soft and shy to wry and mischievous. “Uh. There’s no actual milking, is there?”
“Roping and branding only,” Chris said solemnly. “I promise.”
He’d never heard Darren actually giggle before. It was kind of adorable.
***
Darren was new-Darren didn’t know. He had to remember that. “Uh, hi,” Chris said, holding on to the door of his trailer, carefully angled so that his body took up all available space in the doorway. “No, I’m fine, I’m sorry I haven’t been-I’m just… kind of stressed right now.”
Darren came up another step, because he apparently didn’t speak subtlety. “I figured. That’s why I came by-you seem stressed out.”
He hated having this conversation-hated it. “I’ll be fine, really. I’m just… I have a lot of work to do right now-”
“Well, duh. I’m here to help.”
This wasn’t how this went. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go-not at all. It was supposed to go like this: he would say he was fine and just busy, and promise that he’d be back to fun-time-Chris very soon, and then the other person would… leave him alone. With either a greater or lesser degree of disappointment-the other person would go, and he would get back to work.
But Darren didn’t go. He came up the steps and somehow made it inside without actually crowding Chris out of the way, his presence bright and shocking in the quiet gloom of the trailer. It was unexpected, it was off-script-and Chris was already so worn out, so tired, his normal defenses fractured and in need of repair (which was why he needed to be alone in the first place). “Darren,” he said, still trying to be careful, trying hard to remember that Darren hadn’t seen him like this before. “I… look, I appreciate it, I know you’re trying to help, I just don’t-it’s not a good-”
“Sit down,” Darren told him, steering him straight towards where his open script was perched on the small table. “Just… sit down and let me try, okay?”
“Try what?” he said-and God, he didn’t have the time or the energy for this, he should just stop being polite and tell Darren to get lost-only here he was, sitting in front of his script where he’d spent the past three hours trying to make himself focus, and Darren was right behind him; Darren was… touching him.
“Uh, it doesn’t have a name,” Darren said absently, hands on his shoulders, firmly set. “It’s kind of… half-Reiki, and half deep-tissue, just something I figured out-”
“Darren,” his voice was a little raspy, and he cleared his throat. Of course Darren would have his own patented brand of hands-on friend-touching, something he just… did, like it was easy, like it was nothing. “I’m sure… that’s very nice of you, and I appreciate it, but I’m-right now I just need to-”
“Give me five minutes,” Darren said, fingers curling into his shoulders. “Just five minutes, okay?”
Five minutes. Pushy bastard. Jesus. “Fine,” he said, and he didn’t bother trying to keep the edge out of his voice, because-because Darren might be new, but he was also a pushy bastard, and he’d asked for it.
He went back to the script. Darren held onto his shoulders, and breathed a lot. Quietly, but-a lot. Deep, regular breaths. Chris tried to ignore it.
As before, the pages in front of him rebuffed every effort he made to think deeply about them. He had deadlines coming up-decisions that had to be made, to go this way or that way, to put his time and energy into this or into that or into… into. “Your hands are hot.”
“Yeah, that happens.” Darren was the one who sounded like he was absorbed in work, his voice mild and preoccupied, his hands shifting just a little further out, a little further back towards Chris’ shoulderblades. His ridiculously, freakishly hot hands.
The thing was-Chris didn’t even like massage. Although he didn’t usually say so-such a sentiment was nearly sacrilege in the company he generally kept, but-it just wasn’t his thing. Because it just made him feel stiff and awkward, made him super-conscious of his own self-consciousness, the muscular-level struggle to just sit there and take it. He could deal with being manhandled for makeup, wardrobe, hair-there was a purpose to that, after all, it was part of the job, but this… “I don’t think this is, um, I mean-thanks, but I don’t-”
“It hasn’t been five minutes yet,” Darren just sounded amused, and Chris gave up. If the guy wanted to waste his time-fine.
He worked. Darren breathed. He found himself breathing along, and made himself stop-but a minute later he caught himself doing it again. Darren’s hands felt like mellow, glowing fire, and Chris didn’t really notice when his finger running down the pages slowed, then stopped, when he let his forearms rest on the table and let his head fall forward.
It wasn’t massage, not really. It was just-touch. A patient, lulling touch-not much movement or pressure, but nevertheless it was warm and deep, soothing and different-different from anything he was used to. Then there was movement, slow and subtle, Darren’s thumbs zeroing in on a spot under his shoulderblade, smoothing over a knot of pain he hadn’t even been aware of until it eased away. He sighed.
“Hurt?”
He shook his head. “No.” He took a breath. “It’s… weird, though.”
“Weird-good, or weird-bad?”
“It’s not… bad.” He would have said more, but all of a sudden the scene he’d been worrying over opened up to him inside his head-the motivation and the subtleties, the emotional notes that he would need to hit to make it make sense-if only to himself. “Oh.”
Darren’s furnace hands moved up above the collar of his t-shirt, cupping the back of his neck gently. Chris’ whole body was as warm and relaxed as if he were floating in a hot bath. “Better?”
“Mmm-hm.” His toes were wiggling. He hadn’t told them to, but they were. He could feel them-he could feel everything, the entirety of his body, from his wiggling toes to the roots of his hair. Remarkable. “Um. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Darren said quietly, then let go of the back of his neck (the sudden, shocking rush of cool air there made every one of the tiny hairs at his nape prickle to attention), and walked away, letting himself out of the trailer with nothing more than one last smile and a wave.
Weird. Definitely weird. But not… bad.
***
It wasn’t the first friendship he’d had since his life changed. It was just… the most private one. The oddest one. The slowest-growing one.
The secret one.
They didn’t talk much, in public. Because even when they weren’t working, the microscope scrutiny and crazy media circus made being in public a performance-and while he could have told you anything and everything about how Kurt and Blaine performed together, there really wasn’t much to say about how Chris and Darren performed together, because… they didn’t. Not in public. So he kept it light, kept it funny, and kept everything else to himself.
Even his family (his birth family as well as his found family) didn’t know-not for sure, because he didn’t talk about it, and Darren didn’t talk about it. Yes, he said whenever anyone asked-he was getting along fine with the new guy, they were friends. He left it at that.
Which made it… his, in a way that almost nothing else was. Theirs.
He felt like he was getting away with something. Which was absurd and also hysterical-when he told Darren about it, Darren laughed until he snorted, called him a radical subversive, and sang Fuck the Police in falsetto until Chris begged him to stop, doubled over and clutching his stomach and howling.
***
“I’m not a superstar. I’m not some fucking glamour-boy. I’m not a… goddamn… heartthrob.” The last was punctuated by Darren wrestling with his socks, until he finally laid back victorious into the couch cushions, wiggling his now-bare toes with obvious relief. “Fucking dress shoes-never again; my stylist can jam all the dress shoes right up her ass, if she’s so hot for them. They’re like little glossy chambers-of-horror. For feet.”
“You’re pissed,” Chris observed casually, toeing off his own hideously uncomfortable shoes before he ducked into his kitchen to get them both a drink.
“I am.” Darren sounded apologetic. “I’m venting. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no apology necessary,” Chris said breezily, one beer and one hard lemonade in hand as he walked back to the couch. “If I remember correctly, you bore witness to my impassioned-and possibly libelous-tirade against the inclusion of three different legal teams in one meeting.”
Darren’s head lolled in his direction, his scowl fading to a gentle, reminiscent smile. “That was such an awesome rant.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “You swore.”
Chris handed him the beer, grinning. “I was distraught.”
Darren nodded. “You were fucking distraught.”
They drank in silence for a while. Chris contemplated his black dress socks. Darren stared at the ceiling. Chris didn’t bother to prompt-Darren would talk about it, when he was ready.
“I feel like such a bitch, complaining,” Darren said at last, one broad thumbnail picking at the label of his beer bottle. “Like-fuck, like I haven’t been working for this, hoping for this, my whole life-” he shook his head. “But that’s the thing, you know? I mean, I got into this because it’s what I wanted to do, because I wanted to make things and share them, I wanted to… share who I am. What I have to offer. Who I really am.” He drank, killing the bottle, and then sighed heavily. “But that… most of the time, that seems like the very last thing anyone wants.”
Chris reached over and took the empty bottle away, setting it on the side table, then reached out and took Darren’s chilled, damp hand in his own. It was easy, now; easy to do that. “It’s what I want,” he said softly, letting his thumb trace over the fine hairs on the back of Darren’s hand. “It’s… what I’ll always want from you. For the record.”
Darren didn’t say anything, but he laced their fingers together and squeezed, then closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the top of the couch. Chris watched him for a moment, then squeezed back, closed his own eyes, and relaxed into the quiet and dark.
***
He hated it, hated it, hated how high-pitched and wavery his voice got when he was like this. He couldn’t help it. But he hated it.
“I’m on my own, I mean, I’m forging my own path here, Darren, and what happens if-what if I make a wrong choice? What happens then?” He fiddled with the trailer blinds, knowing he was talking too much, pacing too much, but totally unable to stop. “I know how to not f… fuck up in the big ways-don’t drink too much, don’t say the wrong thing, don’t be an asshole-but how do I make sure I’m not fucking up in the little ways? How do I make sure I’m not fucking up in the kinds of ways that will make a difference, years from now, between looking back at everything that happened with regret, or… or being proud of what I’ve done?”
“Chris-”
“I’m tired, Darren. I’m not sure about… about anything, really-and I’m so, so tired. I try to be so careful, but-what if I slip? What happens if I slip? It seems so easy to slip-”
“Chris.”
“What?”
“Come here.” Darren patted the bench seat beside him, his face stern and set.
Chris sighed. Ran his hands through his hair. Went.
He sat down on the other end of the bench seat, and put his feet in Darren’s lap when Darren held out his hands. He let Darren tug his sneakers and socks off (that had freaked him right out, the first time, but he was used to it now), and sighed when Darren’s warm hands wrapped around his feet.
“Okay, dude, listen-I’m gonna sit here and tell you some stuff while I rub your freakishly huge, Cory-sized feet-”
“Hey-”
“Shut up. They are. So, I’m gonna do that-and you’re gonna shut up and take it and listen, okay?”
Chris put his forearm over his eyes. “I think there’s some kind of Federal law against absorbing pearls of wisdom from a tiny, half-Filipino hippie who calls you ‘dude’,” he said faintly, flexing his toes as Darren’s knuckles slid firmly over his instep.
“Not in California-it’s practically the state sport, here. You’re safe, dude.”
“Oh, whatever.”
“Look-some of this shit is stuff you just can’t control, you know?”
“I know, I just-”
“I know; you still want to control it anyway, because that’s you.”
Chris spread out his toes while Darren tugged on them. “Are you implying that I’m a control-freak?”
“Not so much implying, really-more like, stating. Hey, if the freakishly-huge shoe fits-”
“I’m fully prepared to stop being friends with you, you know.”
“I’d believe you, except that I doubt your ability to deal with my overwhelming sorrow and woe if you did.”
“You’d give me the big-eyes.”
“The biggest eyes imaginable. And you would crumble.” Chris’ middle toe popped softly, and both of them sighed. “You would cave like… like Lea faced with a homeless kitten.”
“Aww.”
“So don’t even think about it. I’m just trying to get across to you-the only things you can really control are those things that are… controllable.”
That was… moronically obvious. There was no reason on earth why it should touch him like a finger placed on his heart. “I know.”
“And I know you’re tired, Chris, okay? I know.” Smooth, slow working of thumbs and knuckles over his heel, instep, the ball of his foot-like waves, waves of looseness and limpid warmth rising up his legs like a tide. “You work really, really hard-you’re going to be tired. But you might, maybe, be a little less tired if you stuck to only trying to control the stuff that’s controllable. If you gave yourself a break on that. Because I don’t think you need to worry about the rest-you’re the best shit-handler I’ve ever met; if there is shit to be handled, you will handle it.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “All shall behold my shit-handling abilities, and despair.”
Warm hands. Such warm hands, pressing close around his feet. “Well, yeah.”
He sighed. “Well, okay.”
***
Darren looked like manic, warmed-over death, but there wasn’t much time to take him in before Chris almost got hit in the face with the two giant, brown paper bags that Darren thrust at him, bags that were-oof-surprisingly heavy.
“I’ve missed you so much!” Darren said, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. “I’ve been… God, I’ve done everything, and it just occurred to me how long it’s been since I’ve seen you and I missed you and-hey, I brought sushi.”
“I… oh.” He peeked into the bags, packed with foam and foil packages. “Thanks.”
“I thought,” Darren said, ducking past him and stripping off his hoodie, walking and talking at roughly the same speed. “I thought we could have some sushi-because, you know, I knew you’d be here, working your ass off and forgetting to eat-and I could be quiet around you, because you don’t need me to talk all the time-”
“Uh, no-”
“So I could be quiet and just listen and you could tell me-everything, everything you’ve been up to, everything that’s going on-”
“Darren.”
“Yeah?” Darren was looking at him expectantly, half-smiling. He looked awful.
“You look awful. Sit down and shut up, okay? I’ll unpack the food.”
“Okay-yeah, that’d be good, I’ll just sit here and you can-”
“Shut up!” He called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen. Darren shut up. Chris started talking before Darren kicked back into gear again, trivial things and real things and catch-up things (and he wondered how long it was going to take for him to get used to talking like this-talking about the things he didn’t talk about with anyone else but Darren), talking nonstop until he walked back into the living room with a loaded tray-
And found Darren asleep on the couch, shoes off and mouth open and stubble and messy hair and ungainly sprawl, looking very much like an oddly hirsute five-year-old who’d been allowed to stay too late at a party.
Chris stopped talking. He put the tray carefully down on the table, then went to his hallway closet for a light blanket. He covered Darren as gently and quietly as he could, pausing a moment when he realized that Darren’s fingernails were painted. With neon. Rainbow. Nail polish. It was in pretty bad shape.
“You’re never going to live this down,” he whispered, shaking his head.
Darren mumbled something unintelligible.
Chris set the tray of sushi to the right of his laptop, and went back to work.
***
It was Monday night when Darren appeared on his doorstep, laden with bags and a large, flat box. “I take it you and Sean broke up.”
Chris sighed. He didn’t-really didn’t-want to see anyone right now. That never seemed to matter, though, when it came to Darren. He held the door open and stood aside. “Nice to see you too, Darren.”
He closed the door behind Darren and followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the wall while Darren offloaded a giant pizza, an economy-sized bottle of Jean-Marc XO vodka, two pints of Haagen-Dasz, and two pints of Ben and Jerry’s. It was hard not to smile, even though that was about the last thing he felt like doing. “How did you know?”
“Last week you told me,” Darren said while he packed everything except the pizza into the freezer, “you said everything was going great with you guys.” He paused, AmeriCone Dream in hand, and held up one finger. “Then, I didn’t hear from you all weekend. Not once.” He stashed the ice cream. “Then, you were late today-you’re never late.” He shut the freezer and opened the cupboard, rummaging for plates. “And you didn’t talk to me today-aside from work stuff. And you look…” his head appeared from behind the cupboard door, looking Chris over. “Like someone ran you over with a truck. Emotionally speaking.” He shrugged. “Gorgeous, of course, as always, but… hurt. Fragile.”
Chris crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not. Fragile.”
Darren gave him a ‘well, duh’ look as he whisked by with the box and plates. “I know that, fool.”
He made it through half a slice before he gave up. “Sorry, I’m just… not hungry.”
Darren abandoned his own pizza, and slid both their plates onto the coffee table before he leaned back, pulling Chris back with him, into the curve of his arm. Chris closed his eyes and breathed.
There was quiet, a long spell of quiet while Darren rubbed his shoulder slowly, their heads leaning against each other. It hurt-more than he’d hurt all day, as he’d done a fairly good job of distracting himself from it. It also, somehow, felt better.
“Were you in love?” Darren asked him, his voice soft.
Chris pressed his lips together hard, and took a breath before he answered. “I don’t… no, I don’t think so.” That wasn’t it. And maybe Darren knew that wasn’t it, because he was quiet, expectant. “But… I wanted to be.” He had to stop and swallow. “I think… I was getting ready to be.”
“Huh.” The touch on his shoulder was so warm, so soothing. Hypnotic. “So… what happened?”
He took another deep breath. “Not sure. But I think… maybe, he figured that out.” He had to rub his eyes. “And that’s… not what he wanted.”
“Wow,” Darren said, shaking his head so both of their heads rocked. “What a fucking idiot.”
Chris didn’t expect to laugh. It hurt to laugh. He couldn’t help it, though.
“Also-he had a totally stupid face.”
“Darren-”
“And he smelled like mothballs and pee.”
“Ow-Darren-”
“Man, I hated that asshole. I’m so glad the little stupid-faced, pee-smelling fucker is gone-”
“…Oh my God, Darren…”
***
“Darren-”
“I don’t want to talk right now.”
“Darren.”
“Go away!”
“No!” Darren had hidden out in his trailer all day, every moment when he wasn’t working. Chris didn’t remember any such thing ever happening before-Darren was a thoroughly social animal. Hence, something was wrong. “No, I’m not going away. I’m standing outside this trailer until you decide to let me in-which means you’re being inhospitable, right now, leaving your co-worker standing out here in the cold, all alone with nobody to talk to. I could be bleeding to death right now, Darren, all alone out here, bleeding and hurting and suffering, all by myself just because you don’t have the guts to-” he almost got brained by the trailer door as it flew open. Darren looked pissed. Royally pissed.
Darren squinted at him. “You’re not bleeding.”
“No thanks to you and your reckless door-opening skills.” He pressed the advantage, heading up the stairs and through the door before he closed it behind him. Inside, it was dark, silent, all the blinds shut. Chris cleared his throat. “Uh, I think you have to be listening to the Cure and also scribbling poetry for this ambiance to really work, Darren.”
Darren hadn’t looked at him since he’d closed the door. “I’m just… I’m not good to be around people right now, okay?”
“I’m not people. I’m me.” He sat down on the long bench seat. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Darren folded himself down onto the floor with a sigh, his arms wrapped around his knees. “It’s… nothing. It’s stupid, and I’m not telling you.”
Chris crossed his legs. “I don’t care if it’s stupid, and I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
Darren buried his face in his hands, rocking a little. “Dude-seriously-it’s just… lame. I don’t want to talk about it. Stop asking.”
“Dude. Seriously. Talk to me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Talk to me.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Talk to me.”
“Jesus fucking Christ-okay-I hate the fucking Kardashians and their entire extended stupid fucking family with a blazing, passionate hatred, okay?”
He was fairly sure that this was one of those times when Darren was having doubts about whether people would take him-and his work-seriously, which was really too bad because Chris himself was laughing much, much too hard to make any of the perfectly valid points he normally would have made in this situation. He probably would have felt really bad about it, except that Darren, after gaping at him for a moment with an open-mouthed expression of betrayed shock (which, God help him, only made him laugh harder), completely fucking lost it, laughing so hard he was crying at the same time, holding his sides and rolling around on the floor.
Chris slid off the bench seat like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and groped his way over to Darren breathlessly, clinging to his neck and trying not to die while the two of them had hysterics. Every time he thought he had it under control, the sheer, unbridled outrage and revulsion in Darren’s tone would come back to him, and set him off again.
He was giggling and twitching and gasping when Darren kissed him, grinning against his mouth, warm, wide hands on either side of his face. It was just one kiss, soft and warm and quickly interrupted by a loud hiccup from Chris and a subsequent snort from Darren, but Darren didn’t let him go afterwards-he kept their foreheads pressed together, still swaying a little.
“I am so fucking glad of you,” Darren whispered to him between gasps for air, holding on like he was never going to let go. “Every damn day-I’m just… so glad you’re here. I just wanted you to know that.”
“You understand I’m getting you the complete Kardashian paper doll collection for your birthday,” he replied, as solemnly as he could, given the hiccups.
Darren’s eyes lit up. “Oooh, ritual bonfire time. Best therapy ever.”
Chris started giggling again. Darren finally let go of his face and tousled his hair. “Think about it, Chris. We can make s’mores!”
***
He’d snapped at Eric. He’d snapped at Lea. He’d snapped at Cory-who was basically the sweetest, gentlest soul on the planet, and who subsequently retired from the field with no recrimination on his face at all-only puzzled hurt, which was a thousand times worse.
He’d missed marks. He’d flubbed lines. And all of a sudden he was that guy-the guy who made everything take ten times longer than it needed to, who ratcheted up the pressure on everyone else as they fell further and further behind.
He never, ever wanted to be that guy. But today, he was. And he had no earthly idea why.
It couldn’t be stress-he was always stressed. It couldn’t be lack of sleep-he couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept; but that was normal. He was used to it, he dealt with it, he managed. He always managed.
So why wasn’t he managing?
The second that lunch was called, he headed for his trailer. He didn’t even realize Darren had followed him until he tossed his jacket on the table, closed the door-and turned around to find Darren staring at him. “Not now, Darren.” He opened the door again, gesturing with his head. “I’m just-I don’t want to talk, okay? I’m not in the mood. Not now.”
Darren went to the door, but he only took the knob out of Chris’ hand and closed it. “I don’t need you to talk, just listen. I have… two things to say. They’re quick.”
Chris took a breath, and bit his tongue before any of the things that wanted to come out of his mouth could escape. He was stubborn, but Darren was horrifyingly tenacious, and if one of them didn’t back down, it could get very ugly very fast, given the mood he was in. “Okay. Two quick things. Fine. I’m listening.”
Darren nodded. “The first thing is this: you’re a professional.”
For a moment, that made no sense at all-did not connect on any level. But then it sank in, what Darren was trying to say to him-and God help him, he almost started crying. “Not today.”
“Every day,” Darren insisted, taking one step closer to him. “Every day, all the time. You’re the most professional person I know-”
“But I-”
“Shut up. I don’t need you to talk, remember? Just listen. You are a professional-and so you’re going to handle this like one-you’re going to go out there and build your bridges and make your apologies, and get yourself in a place where you can do the job and do it beautifully, do it brilliantly-do it as only you can do it. Because you are fucking awesome at this, and you’re a professional.”
He was… numb. Cold. Sad. Sorry. All of the above. He just didn’t know what to do with it, with any of it. “I… fine. What’s the second thing?”
Darren opened his mouth, closed it, and his face softened. He took another step closer-pretty much the last step left between them. “The second thing is this: it’s okay to fall apart.”
That was very much like hearing Darren tell him the sky was red, after having just finished assuring him that it was blue. “What? I… no, of course it isn’t-you just got done telling me-”
“I-know-I-know-I-know,” Darren said in a soft rush, reaching out for him, stopping him from pulling away. “Professionals don’t fall apart-and it doesn’t matter who is or isn’t counting on you because you’re counting on you and that’s what matters, that’s the driving force, I know you, I know that-and yeah, that’s true, but that’s not what I mean, okay? I mean here-” he shook Chris’ shoulders a little. “Here, right here, with me-with me. It’s okay. It’s okay to fall apart, it’s okay-”
He was horrified to find himself crying-actually crying, not for work and not on purpose, just stuffed full of something he could no longer hold onto and crying into Darren’s shoulder, hanging on and quietly hacking up something that felt like it had been sitting on his chest forever. It hurt. It felt like bleeding-like what bleeding out must feel like.
“I’ve got you, man,” Darren said quietly, rubbing his back-like this was normal, like this was something normal people did, like this was something he did all the time for his friends. “It’s okay, Chris-it’s gonna be fine. I’ve got you.”
“I’m sorry,” Chris said, and the words burned his throat on the way out, like he was throwing them up rather than just saying them. His stomach was a gnarled, heavy lump of pain. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Darren said again, and it really, really didn’t seem fair that such a stupid, banal platitude should make a difference, should somehow make him feel that it was, maybe, actually going to be okay-
But it did.
***
(Continued in Part 2 Here)
Title: Down To Zero
Author: Cimmerians
Fandom/Pairing: Glee RPS, Chris Colfer/Darren Criss
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex
Word Count: 11,134
Summary: Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out.
Gratitudes: I am grateful to AubreyLi, as always, for her incredible generosity and kindness to a struggling author; and for once again letting me peek at her sexy, sexy brain. I am also grateful to Lil-Lis for in-process feedback and cheerleading, and to Simone for being so damn beautiful and smart and sweet, and for bringing grace into my life every day. Finally, gratitude to my beloved Andrew, for last-minute readership and affirmation.
***
The red carpet gauntlet (the one he always thought of-very privately-as ‘the media pig feeding trough’) was the usual frenzy of popping-flashing-yelling, and it was a profound relief to duck past the guard and around the corner, through the chocked-open double doors and into the (comparatively) dim, quiet hallway leading to the event. Chris took a deep, relieved breath and let his face start to relax out of the controlled rictus he’d come to think of as ‘cherubic smile #3’-only then he almost ran headlong into Darren, who was slouched against the wall with his hands jammed deep in his pockets and a look on his face that Chris associated with foxholes in war movies.
“Hey,” he said, and Darren met his gaze, and there was something about the look in his eyes that brought it all back-what it was like when it was new, all the screaming and all the demands and all the pressure, what it was like to suddenly be a mile deep underwater with no idea whether or not your air was going to hold out for the duration. “Oh, hey. You okay?”
Darren smiled and shrugged, floating up off the wall with effortless grace. “Yeah, I’m… that was amazing, it was… intense.” His pupils were dilated. “I’m pretty sure I acted like the world’s biggest flaming dork out there, but it was just…”
“You were fine.” He hadn’t seen a thing, but. “It’s hard, at first.”
“That-but awesome, you know, I’m not, uh, ungrateful, I just… it was hard, kind of hard, with all that going on, to feel like a, like a person, and not a… commodity.”
They had been polite with each other, so far. Polite and friendly, and not much beyond that (it seemed safest, given how much was presently unknown about the future, now that things seemed to be changing on a daily basis). But that-that was an oddly raw statement, oddly vulnerable, and also more than a little close to home. Chris surprised himself by reaching out-it felt strange and risky and foreign to him to do it, but he did it, he reached out and caught Darren’s hand (cold, and a little clammy, just the way his own hands had been for the first year or so) and squeezed it, briefly, and then let go. “That prize-heifer feeling,” he said, and the look in Darren’s eyes changed-all at once, right at him, frank and direct and connected and… grateful. “You get used to it.”
Darren smiled, and even in the low light, Chris could see him blushing. “That’s-perfect, prize heifer, yeah.” He shook his head, his smile shading from soft and shy to wry and mischievous. “Uh. There’s no actual milking, is there?”
“Roping and branding only,” Chris said solemnly. “I promise.”
He’d never heard Darren actually giggle before. It was kind of adorable.
***
Darren was new-Darren didn’t know. He had to remember that. “Uh, hi,” Chris said, holding on to the door of his trailer, carefully angled so that his body took up all available space in the doorway. “No, I’m fine, I’m sorry I haven’t been-I’m just… kind of stressed right now.”
Darren came up another step, because he apparently didn’t speak subtlety. “I figured. That’s why I came by-you seem stressed out.”
He hated having this conversation-hated it. “I’ll be fine, really. I’m just… I have a lot of work to do right now-”
“Well, duh. I’m here to help.”
This wasn’t how this went. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go-not at all. It was supposed to go like this: he would say he was fine and just busy, and promise that he’d be back to fun-time-Chris very soon, and then the other person would… leave him alone. With either a greater or lesser degree of disappointment-the other person would go, and he would get back to work.
But Darren didn’t go. He came up the steps and somehow made it inside without actually crowding Chris out of the way, his presence bright and shocking in the quiet gloom of the trailer. It was unexpected, it was off-script-and Chris was already so worn out, so tired, his normal defenses fractured and in need of repair (which was why he needed to be alone in the first place). “Darren,” he said, still trying to be careful, trying hard to remember that Darren hadn’t seen him like this before. “I… look, I appreciate it, I know you’re trying to help, I just don’t-it’s not a good-”
“Sit down,” Darren told him, steering him straight towards where his open script was perched on the small table. “Just… sit down and let me try, okay?”
“Try what?” he said-and God, he didn’t have the time or the energy for this, he should just stop being polite and tell Darren to get lost-only here he was, sitting in front of his script where he’d spent the past three hours trying to make himself focus, and Darren was right behind him; Darren was… touching him.
“Uh, it doesn’t have a name,” Darren said absently, hands on his shoulders, firmly set. “It’s kind of… half-Reiki, and half deep-tissue, just something I figured out-”
“Darren,” his voice was a little raspy, and he cleared his throat. Of course Darren would have his own patented brand of hands-on friend-touching, something he just… did, like it was easy, like it was nothing. “I’m sure… that’s very nice of you, and I appreciate it, but I’m-right now I just need to-”
“Give me five minutes,” Darren said, fingers curling into his shoulders. “Just five minutes, okay?”
Five minutes. Pushy bastard. Jesus. “Fine,” he said, and he didn’t bother trying to keep the edge out of his voice, because-because Darren might be new, but he was also a pushy bastard, and he’d asked for it.
He went back to the script. Darren held onto his shoulders, and breathed a lot. Quietly, but-a lot. Deep, regular breaths. Chris tried to ignore it.
As before, the pages in front of him rebuffed every effort he made to think deeply about them. He had deadlines coming up-decisions that had to be made, to go this way or that way, to put his time and energy into this or into that or into… into. “Your hands are hot.”
“Yeah, that happens.” Darren was the one who sounded like he was absorbed in work, his voice mild and preoccupied, his hands shifting just a little further out, a little further back towards Chris’ shoulderblades. His ridiculously, freakishly hot hands.
The thing was-Chris didn’t even like massage. Although he didn’t usually say so-such a sentiment was nearly sacrilege in the company he generally kept, but-it just wasn’t his thing. Because it just made him feel stiff and awkward, made him super-conscious of his own self-consciousness, the muscular-level struggle to just sit there and take it. He could deal with being manhandled for makeup, wardrobe, hair-there was a purpose to that, after all, it was part of the job, but this… “I don’t think this is, um, I mean-thanks, but I don’t-”
“It hasn’t been five minutes yet,” Darren just sounded amused, and Chris gave up. If the guy wanted to waste his time-fine.
He worked. Darren breathed. He found himself breathing along, and made himself stop-but a minute later he caught himself doing it again. Darren’s hands felt like mellow, glowing fire, and Chris didn’t really notice when his finger running down the pages slowed, then stopped, when he let his forearms rest on the table and let his head fall forward.
It wasn’t massage, not really. It was just-touch. A patient, lulling touch-not much movement or pressure, but nevertheless it was warm and deep, soothing and different-different from anything he was used to. Then there was movement, slow and subtle, Darren’s thumbs zeroing in on a spot under his shoulderblade, smoothing over a knot of pain he hadn’t even been aware of until it eased away. He sighed.
“Hurt?”
He shook his head. “No.” He took a breath. “It’s… weird, though.”
“Weird-good, or weird-bad?”
“It’s not… bad.” He would have said more, but all of a sudden the scene he’d been worrying over opened up to him inside his head-the motivation and the subtleties, the emotional notes that he would need to hit to make it make sense-if only to himself. “Oh.”
Darren’s furnace hands moved up above the collar of his t-shirt, cupping the back of his neck gently. Chris’ whole body was as warm and relaxed as if he were floating in a hot bath. “Better?”
“Mmm-hm.” His toes were wiggling. He hadn’t told them to, but they were. He could feel them-he could feel everything, the entirety of his body, from his wiggling toes to the roots of his hair. Remarkable. “Um. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Darren said quietly, then let go of the back of his neck (the sudden, shocking rush of cool air there made every one of the tiny hairs at his nape prickle to attention), and walked away, letting himself out of the trailer with nothing more than one last smile and a wave.
Weird. Definitely weird. But not… bad.
***
It wasn’t the first friendship he’d had since his life changed. It was just… the most private one. The oddest one. The slowest-growing one.
The secret one.
They didn’t talk much, in public. Because even when they weren’t working, the microscope scrutiny and crazy media circus made being in public a performance-and while he could have told you anything and everything about how Kurt and Blaine performed together, there really wasn’t much to say about how Chris and Darren performed together, because… they didn’t. Not in public. So he kept it light, kept it funny, and kept everything else to himself.
Even his family (his birth family as well as his found family) didn’t know-not for sure, because he didn’t talk about it, and Darren didn’t talk about it. Yes, he said whenever anyone asked-he was getting along fine with the new guy, they were friends. He left it at that.
Which made it… his, in a way that almost nothing else was. Theirs.
He felt like he was getting away with something. Which was absurd and also hysterical-when he told Darren about it, Darren laughed until he snorted, called him a radical subversive, and sang Fuck the Police in falsetto until Chris begged him to stop, doubled over and clutching his stomach and howling.
***
“I’m not a superstar. I’m not some fucking glamour-boy. I’m not a… goddamn… heartthrob.” The last was punctuated by Darren wrestling with his socks, until he finally laid back victorious into the couch cushions, wiggling his now-bare toes with obvious relief. “Fucking dress shoes-never again; my stylist can jam all the dress shoes right up her ass, if she’s so hot for them. They’re like little glossy chambers-of-horror. For feet.”
“You’re pissed,” Chris observed casually, toeing off his own hideously uncomfortable shoes before he ducked into his kitchen to get them both a drink.
“I am.” Darren sounded apologetic. “I’m venting. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no apology necessary,” Chris said breezily, one beer and one hard lemonade in hand as he walked back to the couch. “If I remember correctly, you bore witness to my impassioned-and possibly libelous-tirade against the inclusion of three different legal teams in one meeting.”
Darren’s head lolled in his direction, his scowl fading to a gentle, reminiscent smile. “That was such an awesome rant.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “You swore.”
Chris handed him the beer, grinning. “I was distraught.”
Darren nodded. “You were fucking distraught.”
They drank in silence for a while. Chris contemplated his black dress socks. Darren stared at the ceiling. Chris didn’t bother to prompt-Darren would talk about it, when he was ready.
“I feel like such a bitch, complaining,” Darren said at last, one broad thumbnail picking at the label of his beer bottle. “Like-fuck, like I haven’t been working for this, hoping for this, my whole life-” he shook his head. “But that’s the thing, you know? I mean, I got into this because it’s what I wanted to do, because I wanted to make things and share them, I wanted to… share who I am. What I have to offer. Who I really am.” He drank, killing the bottle, and then sighed heavily. “But that… most of the time, that seems like the very last thing anyone wants.”
Chris reached over and took the empty bottle away, setting it on the side table, then reached out and took Darren’s chilled, damp hand in his own. It was easy, now; easy to do that. “It’s what I want,” he said softly, letting his thumb trace over the fine hairs on the back of Darren’s hand. “It’s… what I’ll always want from you. For the record.”
Darren didn’t say anything, but he laced their fingers together and squeezed, then closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the top of the couch. Chris watched him for a moment, then squeezed back, closed his own eyes, and relaxed into the quiet and dark.
***
He hated it, hated it, hated how high-pitched and wavery his voice got when he was like this. He couldn’t help it. But he hated it.
“I’m on my own, I mean, I’m forging my own path here, Darren, and what happens if-what if I make a wrong choice? What happens then?” He fiddled with the trailer blinds, knowing he was talking too much, pacing too much, but totally unable to stop. “I know how to not f… fuck up in the big ways-don’t drink too much, don’t say the wrong thing, don’t be an asshole-but how do I make sure I’m not fucking up in the little ways? How do I make sure I’m not fucking up in the kinds of ways that will make a difference, years from now, between looking back at everything that happened with regret, or… or being proud of what I’ve done?”
“Chris-”
“I’m tired, Darren. I’m not sure about… about anything, really-and I’m so, so tired. I try to be so careful, but-what if I slip? What happens if I slip? It seems so easy to slip-”
“Chris.”
“What?”
“Come here.” Darren patted the bench seat beside him, his face stern and set.
Chris sighed. Ran his hands through his hair. Went.
He sat down on the other end of the bench seat, and put his feet in Darren’s lap when Darren held out his hands. He let Darren tug his sneakers and socks off (that had freaked him right out, the first time, but he was used to it now), and sighed when Darren’s warm hands wrapped around his feet.
“Okay, dude, listen-I’m gonna sit here and tell you some stuff while I rub your freakishly huge, Cory-sized feet-”
“Hey-”
“Shut up. They are. So, I’m gonna do that-and you’re gonna shut up and take it and listen, okay?”
Chris put his forearm over his eyes. “I think there’s some kind of Federal law against absorbing pearls of wisdom from a tiny, half-Filipino hippie who calls you ‘dude’,” he said faintly, flexing his toes as Darren’s knuckles slid firmly over his instep.
“Not in California-it’s practically the state sport, here. You’re safe, dude.”
“Oh, whatever.”
“Look-some of this shit is stuff you just can’t control, you know?”
“I know, I just-”
“I know; you still want to control it anyway, because that’s you.”
Chris spread out his toes while Darren tugged on them. “Are you implying that I’m a control-freak?”
“Not so much implying, really-more like, stating. Hey, if the freakishly-huge shoe fits-”
“I’m fully prepared to stop being friends with you, you know.”
“I’d believe you, except that I doubt your ability to deal with my overwhelming sorrow and woe if you did.”
“You’d give me the big-eyes.”
“The biggest eyes imaginable. And you would crumble.” Chris’ middle toe popped softly, and both of them sighed. “You would cave like… like Lea faced with a homeless kitten.”
“Aww.”
“So don’t even think about it. I’m just trying to get across to you-the only things you can really control are those things that are… controllable.”
That was… moronically obvious. There was no reason on earth why it should touch him like a finger placed on his heart. “I know.”
“And I know you’re tired, Chris, okay? I know.” Smooth, slow working of thumbs and knuckles over his heel, instep, the ball of his foot-like waves, waves of looseness and limpid warmth rising up his legs like a tide. “You work really, really hard-you’re going to be tired. But you might, maybe, be a little less tired if you stuck to only trying to control the stuff that’s controllable. If you gave yourself a break on that. Because I don’t think you need to worry about the rest-you’re the best shit-handler I’ve ever met; if there is shit to be handled, you will handle it.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “All shall behold my shit-handling abilities, and despair.”
Warm hands. Such warm hands, pressing close around his feet. “Well, yeah.”
He sighed. “Well, okay.”
***
Darren looked like manic, warmed-over death, but there wasn’t much time to take him in before Chris almost got hit in the face with the two giant, brown paper bags that Darren thrust at him, bags that were-oof-surprisingly heavy.
“I’ve missed you so much!” Darren said, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. “I’ve been… God, I’ve done everything, and it just occurred to me how long it’s been since I’ve seen you and I missed you and-hey, I brought sushi.”
“I… oh.” He peeked into the bags, packed with foam and foil packages. “Thanks.”
“I thought,” Darren said, ducking past him and stripping off his hoodie, walking and talking at roughly the same speed. “I thought we could have some sushi-because, you know, I knew you’d be here, working your ass off and forgetting to eat-and I could be quiet around you, because you don’t need me to talk all the time-”
“Uh, no-”
“So I could be quiet and just listen and you could tell me-everything, everything you’ve been up to, everything that’s going on-”
“Darren.”
“Yeah?” Darren was looking at him expectantly, half-smiling. He looked awful.
“You look awful. Sit down and shut up, okay? I’ll unpack the food.”
“Okay-yeah, that’d be good, I’ll just sit here and you can-”
“Shut up!” He called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen. Darren shut up. Chris started talking before Darren kicked back into gear again, trivial things and real things and catch-up things (and he wondered how long it was going to take for him to get used to talking like this-talking about the things he didn’t talk about with anyone else but Darren), talking nonstop until he walked back into the living room with a loaded tray-
And found Darren asleep on the couch, shoes off and mouth open and stubble and messy hair and ungainly sprawl, looking very much like an oddly hirsute five-year-old who’d been allowed to stay too late at a party.
Chris stopped talking. He put the tray carefully down on the table, then went to his hallway closet for a light blanket. He covered Darren as gently and quietly as he could, pausing a moment when he realized that Darren’s fingernails were painted. With neon. Rainbow. Nail polish. It was in pretty bad shape.
“You’re never going to live this down,” he whispered, shaking his head.
Darren mumbled something unintelligible.
Chris set the tray of sushi to the right of his laptop, and went back to work.
***
It was Monday night when Darren appeared on his doorstep, laden with bags and a large, flat box. “I take it you and Sean broke up.”
Chris sighed. He didn’t-really didn’t-want to see anyone right now. That never seemed to matter, though, when it came to Darren. He held the door open and stood aside. “Nice to see you too, Darren.”
He closed the door behind Darren and followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the wall while Darren offloaded a giant pizza, an economy-sized bottle of Jean-Marc XO vodka, two pints of Haagen-Dasz, and two pints of Ben and Jerry’s. It was hard not to smile, even though that was about the last thing he felt like doing. “How did you know?”
“Last week you told me,” Darren said while he packed everything except the pizza into the freezer, “you said everything was going great with you guys.” He paused, AmeriCone Dream in hand, and held up one finger. “Then, I didn’t hear from you all weekend. Not once.” He stashed the ice cream. “Then, you were late today-you’re never late.” He shut the freezer and opened the cupboard, rummaging for plates. “And you didn’t talk to me today-aside from work stuff. And you look…” his head appeared from behind the cupboard door, looking Chris over. “Like someone ran you over with a truck. Emotionally speaking.” He shrugged. “Gorgeous, of course, as always, but… hurt. Fragile.”
Chris crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not. Fragile.”
Darren gave him a ‘well, duh’ look as he whisked by with the box and plates. “I know that, fool.”
He made it through half a slice before he gave up. “Sorry, I’m just… not hungry.”
Darren abandoned his own pizza, and slid both their plates onto the coffee table before he leaned back, pulling Chris back with him, into the curve of his arm. Chris closed his eyes and breathed.
There was quiet, a long spell of quiet while Darren rubbed his shoulder slowly, their heads leaning against each other. It hurt-more than he’d hurt all day, as he’d done a fairly good job of distracting himself from it. It also, somehow, felt better.
“Were you in love?” Darren asked him, his voice soft.
Chris pressed his lips together hard, and took a breath before he answered. “I don’t… no, I don’t think so.” That wasn’t it. And maybe Darren knew that wasn’t it, because he was quiet, expectant. “But… I wanted to be.” He had to stop and swallow. “I think… I was getting ready to be.”
“Huh.” The touch on his shoulder was so warm, so soothing. Hypnotic. “So… what happened?”
He took another deep breath. “Not sure. But I think… maybe, he figured that out.” He had to rub his eyes. “And that’s… not what he wanted.”
“Wow,” Darren said, shaking his head so both of their heads rocked. “What a fucking idiot.”
Chris didn’t expect to laugh. It hurt to laugh. He couldn’t help it, though.
“Also-he had a totally stupid face.”
“Darren-”
“And he smelled like mothballs and pee.”
“Ow-Darren-”
“Man, I hated that asshole. I’m so glad the little stupid-faced, pee-smelling fucker is gone-”
“…Oh my God, Darren…”
***
“Darren-”
“I don’t want to talk right now.”
“Darren.”
“Go away!”
“No!” Darren had hidden out in his trailer all day, every moment when he wasn’t working. Chris didn’t remember any such thing ever happening before-Darren was a thoroughly social animal. Hence, something was wrong. “No, I’m not going away. I’m standing outside this trailer until you decide to let me in-which means you’re being inhospitable, right now, leaving your co-worker standing out here in the cold, all alone with nobody to talk to. I could be bleeding to death right now, Darren, all alone out here, bleeding and hurting and suffering, all by myself just because you don’t have the guts to-” he almost got brained by the trailer door as it flew open. Darren looked pissed. Royally pissed.
Darren squinted at him. “You’re not bleeding.”
“No thanks to you and your reckless door-opening skills.” He pressed the advantage, heading up the stairs and through the door before he closed it behind him. Inside, it was dark, silent, all the blinds shut. Chris cleared his throat. “Uh, I think you have to be listening to the Cure and also scribbling poetry for this ambiance to really work, Darren.”
Darren hadn’t looked at him since he’d closed the door. “I’m just… I’m not good to be around people right now, okay?”
“I’m not people. I’m me.” He sat down on the long bench seat. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Darren folded himself down onto the floor with a sigh, his arms wrapped around his knees. “It’s… nothing. It’s stupid, and I’m not telling you.”
Chris crossed his legs. “I don’t care if it’s stupid, and I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
Darren buried his face in his hands, rocking a little. “Dude-seriously-it’s just… lame. I don’t want to talk about it. Stop asking.”
“Dude. Seriously. Talk to me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Talk to me.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Talk to me.”
“Jesus fucking Christ-okay-I hate the fucking Kardashians and their entire extended stupid fucking family with a blazing, passionate hatred, okay?”
He was fairly sure that this was one of those times when Darren was having doubts about whether people would take him-and his work-seriously, which was really too bad because Chris himself was laughing much, much too hard to make any of the perfectly valid points he normally would have made in this situation. He probably would have felt really bad about it, except that Darren, after gaping at him for a moment with an open-mouthed expression of betrayed shock (which, God help him, only made him laugh harder), completely fucking lost it, laughing so hard he was crying at the same time, holding his sides and rolling around on the floor.
Chris slid off the bench seat like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and groped his way over to Darren breathlessly, clinging to his neck and trying not to die while the two of them had hysterics. Every time he thought he had it under control, the sheer, unbridled outrage and revulsion in Darren’s tone would come back to him, and set him off again.
He was giggling and twitching and gasping when Darren kissed him, grinning against his mouth, warm, wide hands on either side of his face. It was just one kiss, soft and warm and quickly interrupted by a loud hiccup from Chris and a subsequent snort from Darren, but Darren didn’t let him go afterwards-he kept their foreheads pressed together, still swaying a little.
“I am so fucking glad of you,” Darren whispered to him between gasps for air, holding on like he was never going to let go. “Every damn day-I’m just… so glad you’re here. I just wanted you to know that.”
“You understand I’m getting you the complete Kardashian paper doll collection for your birthday,” he replied, as solemnly as he could, given the hiccups.
Darren’s eyes lit up. “Oooh, ritual bonfire time. Best therapy ever.”
Chris started giggling again. Darren finally let go of his face and tousled his hair. “Think about it, Chris. We can make s’mores!”
***
He’d snapped at Eric. He’d snapped at Lea. He’d snapped at Cory-who was basically the sweetest, gentlest soul on the planet, and who subsequently retired from the field with no recrimination on his face at all-only puzzled hurt, which was a thousand times worse.
He’d missed marks. He’d flubbed lines. And all of a sudden he was that guy-the guy who made everything take ten times longer than it needed to, who ratcheted up the pressure on everyone else as they fell further and further behind.
He never, ever wanted to be that guy. But today, he was. And he had no earthly idea why.
It couldn’t be stress-he was always stressed. It couldn’t be lack of sleep-he couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept; but that was normal. He was used to it, he dealt with it, he managed. He always managed.
So why wasn’t he managing?
The second that lunch was called, he headed for his trailer. He didn’t even realize Darren had followed him until he tossed his jacket on the table, closed the door-and turned around to find Darren staring at him. “Not now, Darren.” He opened the door again, gesturing with his head. “I’m just-I don’t want to talk, okay? I’m not in the mood. Not now.”
Darren went to the door, but he only took the knob out of Chris’ hand and closed it. “I don’t need you to talk, just listen. I have… two things to say. They’re quick.”
Chris took a breath, and bit his tongue before any of the things that wanted to come out of his mouth could escape. He was stubborn, but Darren was horrifyingly tenacious, and if one of them didn’t back down, it could get very ugly very fast, given the mood he was in. “Okay. Two quick things. Fine. I’m listening.”
Darren nodded. “The first thing is this: you’re a professional.”
For a moment, that made no sense at all-did not connect on any level. But then it sank in, what Darren was trying to say to him-and God help him, he almost started crying. “Not today.”
“Every day,” Darren insisted, taking one step closer to him. “Every day, all the time. You’re the most professional person I know-”
“But I-”
“Shut up. I don’t need you to talk, remember? Just listen. You are a professional-and so you’re going to handle this like one-you’re going to go out there and build your bridges and make your apologies, and get yourself in a place where you can do the job and do it beautifully, do it brilliantly-do it as only you can do it. Because you are fucking awesome at this, and you’re a professional.”
He was… numb. Cold. Sad. Sorry. All of the above. He just didn’t know what to do with it, with any of it. “I… fine. What’s the second thing?”
Darren opened his mouth, closed it, and his face softened. He took another step closer-pretty much the last step left between them. “The second thing is this: it’s okay to fall apart.”
That was very much like hearing Darren tell him the sky was red, after having just finished assuring him that it was blue. “What? I… no, of course it isn’t-you just got done telling me-”
“I-know-I-know-I-know,” Darren said in a soft rush, reaching out for him, stopping him from pulling away. “Professionals don’t fall apart-and it doesn’t matter who is or isn’t counting on you because you’re counting on you and that’s what matters, that’s the driving force, I know you, I know that-and yeah, that’s true, but that’s not what I mean, okay? I mean here-” he shook Chris’ shoulders a little. “Here, right here, with me-with me. It’s okay. It’s okay to fall apart, it’s okay-”
He was horrified to find himself crying-actually crying, not for work and not on purpose, just stuffed full of something he could no longer hold onto and crying into Darren’s shoulder, hanging on and quietly hacking up something that felt like it had been sitting on his chest forever. It hurt. It felt like bleeding-like what bleeding out must feel like.
“I’ve got you, man,” Darren said quietly, rubbing his back-like this was normal, like this was something normal people did, like this was something he did all the time for his friends. “It’s okay, Chris-it’s gonna be fine. I’ve got you.”
“I’m sorry,” Chris said, and the words burned his throat on the way out, like he was throwing them up rather than just saying them. His stomach was a gnarled, heavy lump of pain. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Darren said again, and it really, really didn’t seem fair that such a stupid, banal platitude should make a difference, should somehow make him feel that it was, maybe, actually going to be okay-
But it did.
***
(Continued in Part 2 Here)