Fic: Best of Both Worlds, Entourage, V/E, R, 1/2
Title: Best of Both Worlds
Author: fourteencandles
Fandom: Entourage
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Length: 15,000 words. I know! Tiny!
Series: Not yet.
Summary: Vince wonders what it would have been like, if things were different. And then he finds out.
Notes: It's sort of an AU. You can read it like that, or like a dream, or... hey, you can read it right to left and upside down if you want to. :) Thanks to shoshannagold for talking me through it a couple of times.
Best of Both Worlds
They had been sniping at each other all week, maybe even all month; it was so bad that Thursday morning, Vince woke up annoyed at Eric. It didn’t help that Eric was already pounding on his door, saying, “We’re gonna be late, asshole.” Vince groaned and yelled back a couple names of his own, then got up and dressed and ready. Turtle was already gone for the day, or maybe had been gone since last night - no one really wanted to hang out with the two of them anymore, and Vince couldn’t blame them. All he and Eric did was fight.
That morning, they stopped along the way for coffee (they didn’t fight, at least, about who was going to pay, though Eric gave Vince a really fucking annoying look when he ordered a regular latte instead of a soy version) and Eric played the radio loud so they wouldn’t have to talk en route. Vince concentrated on thinking about the meeting ahead, not about what a fucking prissy prick Eric could be, with his ironed Armani shirt and his precise way of driving and his goddamned obnoxious habit of checking his cell phone clock every time they stopped even though there was a perfectly good clock on the dash, if it was soooo vital that Eric make a point about being late.
He wished MGA was closer to the house.
They managed to make it to the building without saying much of anything, but on the way in, Eric said, “He’s gonna want you to sign for Sustainable Energy.”
“Not until Johnny’s in the contract,” Vince said.
“Vince, come on,” Eric said. They’d had this talk a hundred times before, and Eric just didn’t get it. Vince had promised Johnny a role - it was the least they could do. He didn’t even care if the thing got cut later on. “Take your career seriously, for once, would you?”
“I take it seriously,” Vince said. “It’s a good fucking movie, right? So why shouldn’t Johnny have a shot at it? He’s my brother, you want me to just ignore him?”
“You want this director to just ignore you?” Eric asked. They stopped in front of the elevators and waited for one to open. Though Vince hoped for a cute secretary or someone to join them and, maybe, deflate the anger, there was no one else around, so they got into the first one alone. “You keep this up, you’re gonna get a difficult reputation. And reputations fucking matter.”
“Oh, did you just figure that out?” Vince muttered.
Eric hit the button for Ari’s floor and stood close to the doors as they closed, and Vince lounged against the back wall, not at all thinking about how fun it would be to kick Eric from there. “I’ve been here half as long as you,” Eric said.
“Whose fucking fault is that?” Vince asked.
“It’s -”
The elevator stopped with a jolt. Vince felt a weird, momentary tingle along his spine, and he jerked his hand away from the little metal handrail, saw that Eric was doing the same.
“What the fucking fuck?” Eric said, shaking out his hand.
“We’re stuck,” Vince said.
Eric jabbed at the buttons; when nothing happened, he whipped out his cell phone and called Lloyd. Two minutes later, they were moving again. Vince felt a little shaken up by the experience, but they got out OK and there was a little crowd of on-lookers when they got off, so he didn’t say anything. In a way, he was glad for the malfunction, because it had stopped his fight with Eric cold.
In fact, they made it through the rest of the day without fighting, which was a miracle, and that night they finished off a bottle of Cabernet and had a nice talk, the first time they’d come close to getting along in weeks.
“You know, I wish I would have come out here with you, after high school,” Eric said, a little drunk. “I should have listened.”
“Or I should have,” Vince said. “I never should have left without you.”
“Things would be different,” Eric said, and then he shrugged. “Well, maybe not.”
“Yeah,” Vince agreed. “I think - no matter what, this is where we would have ended up. Maybe not so different at all.”
But he went to bed thinking about it, and all of the ways that things could have been different, and he couldn’t help wondering about - and maybe even wishing for - what things would have been like if he hadn’t left New York without Eric by his side. He couldn’t help thinking that maybe they’d be happier now.
He woke to an unfamiliar, high-pitched beeping, then a familiar groan. Vince opened his eyes and watched Eric’s arm sail across and turn off the alarm. “Ugh,” Eric muttered, and he kissed the side of Vince’s head.
It worked, Vince thought, and he smiled, fought the urge to sit upright and cheer. He got his wish. So this is what it would've been like, Eric snuggled close. No more fighting. The new world seemed good so far. Vince stayed perfectly still, wondering how much, exactly, had changed. The ceiling was definitely unfamiliar - low, made up of the foamy tiles they used to have in school in New York.
New York.
Vince did sit up, then, because he knew exactly where they were: he could hear the traffic outside, could see the amber glow of city darkness through the Venetian blinds on the window. He was in New York. With Eric. In an apartment.
It worked.
Eric’s hand rested on his back. “Hey, you OK?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Vince said. He turned and looked down at Eric. He looked the same - well, OK, not exactly the same. His haircut was different, shorter, and there was a thin scar through his right eyebrow. Vince reached out to touch that with his thumb, and Eric closed his eyes, leaned into his hand.
“Tempting,” he said, kissing Vince’s palm, “but I’ve already been late once this month. No way I can do two days.” He pulled back and grinned. Then, before Vince could say anything, Eric turned and slid out of bed. He let in a blast of cold air that made Vince hiss and flop back down into the blankets. The sheets were kind of scratchy, but the space Eric had just left was warm. Vince put his head on Eric’s pillow and watched him collecting clothes from a narrow, beat-up dresser - a dresser Vince recognized as the one that used to sit in Eric’s room at his mom’s place.
What Vince didn’t recognize was the ripple of muscle across Eric’s back as he stripped off his undershirt. Eric was fit in the world Vince knew, sure, but here - Eric was ripped. Vince couldn’t help staring.
Eric looked over his shoulder. “Don’t go back to sleep,” he said. “You gotta meet Franklin at 9, right?”
Vince blinked. “Sure,” he said. Franklin? Fuck. He glanced at the clock. It was 7:30.
Eric had already ducked into the bathroom, which was just outside the bedroom door - if this could be called a bedroom. There was barely enough room between the bed and the dresser to walk, and only a narrow closet. Vince knew he should get up and investigate, but it was cold; he would wait for Eric to get done, then maybe he could figure more of this out. He wondered if this was his place or Eric’s, then decided, based on the dresser, that it was Eric’s.
He dozed again and woke to Eric’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Seriously, babe,” he said. “Get a shower, you’ll feel better. I hung your shirt up in the bathroom, too, to get less wrinkly.”
“Thanks,” Vince murmured. Eric kissed him on the mouth, a nice kiss, quick but sweet, and Vince opened his eyes.
Eric smiled at him. “See you after work.”
Vince nodded. Once he heard the door close, he pushed himself out of bed. It was still cold, so he hustled into the bathroom, which was warm and steamy, the mirror fogged over. There were two toothbrushes in the holder, and Vince stared at them and realized he wasn't just in Eric's apartment -- he was in the apartment he and Eric were sharing. That tiny bedroom was theirs. Vince looked around: there were two towels hanging from a hook on the door, next to his shirt. He flipped open the medicine cabinet. It was empty, except for an unopened bottle of lubricant. Vince laughed. OK, he thought, small apartment, but we still know how to have fun. He picked up the nearest toothbrush -- who knew which was which - and stepped into the shower, grateful for warm water. He started to wash his face and realized he had a beard - well, that was fine, one less step to go through. He used the cheap shampoo next to the tub and a bar of soap that smelled exactly like Eric’s pillow.
He did feel better after his shower, warmer, refreshed. A black, long-sleeved button-down was hanging from the back of the door, and Vince slid it on. He took a guess at whose underwear was whose, then found a pair of jeans over the back of a chair in the kitchen that were definitely his. His shoes were by the door, next to a small black cell phone. “Thank God,” he muttered, checking the address book.
He hit dial when he found Franklin’s name.
“You can’t already be running late,” a high-pitched voice grumbled.
“No,” Vince said, affecting a laugh. “No, I just - this is stupid, but, uh, where are we meeting?”
There was a pause. “Uh, same place we’ve been meeting for the last four weeks.” Another pause, as Vince pounded his forehead with his fist. “Baby, tell me you’re not on something.”
“What? No,” Vince said. “No, I swear, I just - look, uh, you ever, like, wake up weird? I mean - like I was having this dream, and now I’m all mixed up.” He bit his lip, hoping that would work. “That ever happen to you?”
“Only every fucking day,” Franklin said. “Wake the fuck up, all right? I’ll see you in an hour at the station - that’s the Queensboro Plaza, OK? In case you fall back to dreamland.”
“Queensboro,” Vince repeated, and hung up. Queenboro Plaza - Queens Boulevard. He entertained the possibility, for a moment, that he was in his own movie, but no. No, Eric was here.
He glanced out the window and couldn’t tell immediately where he was, which was alarming. He could be in College Point or something, which would mean he was already running late. He found a coat hanging on a crooked rack by the door, pulled on gloves and a hat, and hurried outside - and into a narrow, dimly lit hallway, fresh out of his childhood. The place smelled dank even in the cold, which was at least ten degrees worse out here already. Vince shivered and started down the stairs - it was four flights to the floor.
Outside, he got his bearings pretty quickly, heading for the street to the right with traffic. Kissena Boulevard. Flushing. OK. He hurried toward Main Street, watching his step, dodging the crush of shoppers and early-morning strollers, hearing curses and teases being bandied around in Chinese, Korean. He hadn’t been back here in years, but he found the station for the 7 train easy enough. Inside, he had a moment of panic - he hadn’t thought about his wallet before leaving - but he found subway tokens in his pocket, next to his keys (something else he’d forgot to check for). He dropped a token in and ran to the track, squeezed into a train a second away from leaving the station.
So. Back in New York. He was living in a small, shitty apartment, with Eric, and apparently he had something to do with some guy named Franklin. Something that apparently didn’t require dressing up, which seemed like a plus, unless - Vince swallowed. Unless he was on his way to some truly horrible job. He remembered Eric’s muscular arms and surreptitiously felt his own. Not so ripped, but still strong. Moving boxes, maybe, or loading shit at the docks, or - Christ, who knew where he was headed. Vince hadn't done any heavy lifting since junior high, not outside of a gym, and the prospect was daunting. He wanted to sit down, but there was no room, so he rested his head against his bent arm.
By the time he reached Queensboro Plaza, Vince was feeling a little better. If it was a really shitty job, well, he’d just leave. This wasn’t his real life, after all. He stepped off the train and into the crush of the Subway at rush hour - not something he enjoyed, but his body, this body, seemed familiar with it, seemed to know exactly how to dodge, twist, shift away from the people flooding onto the train. He wondered how he was supposed to know Franklin, if they had a usual meeting place. The station was bogged down in repairs at the moment, too - Vince had no idea how to get anywhere, which didn’t really matter, he figured, because he didn’t know where he was going. At this point, he figured he’d be lucky to make it home in one piece. Jesus, had he really been away from home for this long? New York used to be easy to navigate for him, when he and Eric and Turtle had been running around as kids. But right now - he felt disoriented in a couple of different ways, and he missed the ease of life in L.A. - car services, Turtle driving him around, valets. He’d left Queens for reasons beyond wanting to make it in the movies.
He glanced at his watch - and then realized he wasn’t wearing one. Even better. He walked to the Queensboro Plaza sign and slumped next to it, hoping Franklin - whoever he was - would just find him. He’d give him a couple trains, then he’d figure out how to get on the eastbound line again.
”Jesus, you are out of it,” he heard, a second before a hand clamped onto his arm.
A skinny blonde guy with watery blue eyes was shaking his head at Vince. “Franklin?”
“I thought you promised E you were done with this shit,” he said, his grip tightening.
“I’m not on anything,” Vince said, shaking his hand off. "I swear."
Franklin gave him a quick once-over that made Vince feel uncomfortable. He wondered what, exactly, his relationship to Franklin was. Surely he wasn’t cheating on Eric. “You better hope not,” Franklin said. His tone was friendly, teasing. “’Cuz you fuck things up and I’m totally going after him.”
Vince rolled his eyes. “Like he’d go for you,” Vince said, and Franklin laughed.
“Honey, don’t knock what you haven’t tried,” he said, and looped his arm with Vince’s. Well, that answers that, Vince thought. “Come on, dreamy, we’re gonna be late, as usual.”
Franklin navigated the station like a pro, and Vince got the feeling that this wasn’t unusual at all, that Franklin always took the lead. So I’m managed even here, he thought, and felt a little better. Beyond that, Franklin clearly wasn’t cut out for manual labor - Vince envied his thin leather gloves - so maybe things were going better than he hoped. Maybe Franklin was his manager here.
They took the W train, and Vince felt a brief thrill - Broadway? If he was in a show there, it shouldn't be too hard to get his life back on track. He could call one of the New York agents, get them down to see a show. From there, it wasn't a long trip to Ari's attention, and Vince had to believe that even in this world, Ari was out there somewhere, just waiting for him. A couple of months, they'd ditch the shitty apartment and the subway and get things back together.
They got off at the Times Square station, Franklin chattering the whole way about his landlady and some fight they’d had over his cat. All Vince wanted to do was make him slow down, get him to answer a few questions, but he couldn’t get a word in. As they reached the top of the stairs, Vince stopped, not sure which way to turn.
“You really are out of it today, huh?”
Vince looked back at him from the busy hustle of Times Square. He’d spent New Years’ Eve here, two years ago, met Dick Clarke, even, made a brief appearance on his telecast to promote an upcoming film. Eric had been there, and they’d laughed and toasted everything that happened with champagne. “I guess,” Vince said. “I dunno, maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Franklin stepped to the side. “Don’t even joke,” he hissed, grabbing Vince’s arm. “Come on, for that you can buy me coffee.”
They got a cup apiece on the way to the theater - small, cheap, plain coffee from a sidewalk vendor - and then Franklin continued his lead, away from Broadway onto 7th, then a right, a left, Vince could barely keep up, let alone pay attention. His feet were freezing; his hands were turning red and white around the coffee cup, which he couldn’t make himself drink. He wanted a latte. He wanted a driver. He did this every day?
“Here we are!” Franklin said, stopping abruptly in front of what looked like a chrome-fronted office building. “Home sweet home.”
Vince swallowed. OK, he was an accountant. An off Broadway accountant. Maybe a mail-room worker. His hands were so tight on the coffee that he crushed the cup and jumped backward to avoid the spill.
“You’re a wreck,” Franklin said, pulling him through the doors.
They were in a theater. Oh, thank Christ, Vince thought, sucking one burnt finger into his mouth. It was a small theater, sure, and clearly still in the process of being set up, but a theater none-the-less; he could smell make-up and powder. He could see klieg lights stacked in the halls, scaffolding, cans of paint. Thank God I’m still an actor.
Franklin grabbed both of his arms. “Please tell me, for serious, you aren’t fighting with your beautiful boy, are you?”
“No,” Vince said, shaking his head. “We’re fine.” He thought of Eric’s soft kiss that morning. “We’re better than fine. I just have a headache.”
Franklin grinned. “Hit your head on the headboard?” he asked, then snickered. “God, you’re probably sore, too. I’m so tired of being jealous.” He gave Vince a shove. “Go on, go on, get your stuff together, I’ll see you at break.”
With Franklin gone, Vince had no idea where to go - but he didn’t feel lost, now. He knew theaters. He walked down the hall, following the noise. A red-haired girl in a leotard smiled and slapped his ass as he walked past, saying, “Morning, sweetie,” and Vince grinned back at her.
Things weren’t so bad, after all.
He left the theater at 6. It was almost a relief to break back into the cold; the street around them was quiet, or made so by the frigid temperatures. Franklin, next to him, was just as silent. Vince had forgotten how grueling theater could be. He’d been lucky, in some ways - they weren’t off book yet, so he hadn’t had to worry about forgetting his lines, and his body seemed to know where he belonged on the stage. In that way, it was like every performance he’d ever done. He just turned it over to instinct, and things happened. He was playing a villain - not the lead role, which surprised him a little, but a meaty part. It was fun, actually, to play the bad guy for once, and Vince could see the things that would have called to him in the role.
But he’d been off a bit, because it was impossible not to think, impossible to get out of the film mindset of long breaks, optional reshoots, all of that. So there had been a little bit of yelling and a lot of strange looks, and Vince felt like he’d been apologizing for eight hours straight.
“I take it back,” Franklin muttered as they walked back uptown. “Maybe you should be on something.”
Vince rubbed his forehead. He had the book in his jacket, ready to take home and study. There were tiny cryptic markings in his own hand all over the script, and he needed to memorize them all by the morning, or the director was going to shoot him.
They took the same trains as before and got out at Queensboro Plaza. Franklin squinted at the sky. “It’s dark so fucking early now,” he said, shaking his head. “Listen, you want me to ride with you, walk you home?”
Shit, Vince thought. He wasn’t sure if this was a come on or what. “Nah, I’m fine,” he said.
Franklin raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Vince said. “But thanks.”
“Anytime, darling,” Franklin said, and then leaned in to kiss his cheeks, which caught Vince by surprise. He didn’t have time to dwell, though - his train was getting ready to leave. He staggered on board and found a seat - thank fucking God - and almost fell asleep before the Flushing stop.
He experienced the same flurry of disorientation when he stepped off the platform there, but took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could picture his walk from the morning. Kissena, he thought, and stepped into the cold.
The apartment was dark when he walked in, even though the door was unlocked - and oh, Vince thought, his stomach seizing, that was totally his fault. He’d left the place unlocked. He flicked on the light and gave a quick glance around. It didn’t look like anything was missing, but how could he be sure? He’d barely looked at the place that morning.
Now, he took his time, standing by the door, still wearing his hat and coat against the apartment’s chill. There was one room, a living room/dining room combo with a tiny kitchen next to it. They had a denim-covered loveseat with tears in the arm, a worn oak coffee table, and a small - maybe 14” - television sitting on a stand that Vince realized used to be an end table at his mother’s house. The matching end table was next to the loveseat. Behind the TV, against the wall, was a small dining table - about 3 feet square - with two wooden chairs pushed up to it. Just behind the table, a bookshelf made from unfinished lumber and cinder blocks held a few books, a beat up CD player and a stack of CDs, and a few dozen DVDs. On the top, there was a spider plant - wilting - and a framed photo of Vince and Eric that Vince picked up. It was a nice photo, looked like it had been taken at a party, maybe: in it, Vince was kissing Eric’s cheek, his arms around Eric, and Eric had one arm around him, too, and was toasting the camera with a beer, a sweet, happy smile on his face.
So they were together and they were out. That explained some things: the girls at the theater had been friendly, today, but not overly so. None of them had been truly flirtatious, and that was pretty off. Maybe they'd all met Eric. Maybe, in this world, Vince didn't show them any interest. It seemed possible, and Vince sort of liked the idea that he was that guy -- loyal, committed, not even willing to look beyond his partner. It was as good an explanation as any.
Vince took a seat on the couch, nestling his cold hands under his legs to stay warm. Everything was neat, clean, orderly, but the place still felt shabby - probably because it was. The ceiling had water stains, the floor - which was wood - was uneven and creaky. Two throw rugs tried to cover that, but they were as effective as the tacked up band posters. This place was a dump, and it was probably breaking their bank just to stay here.
A stack of mail sat on the coffee table, and Vince could guess what he’d see inside: unpaid bills. A small notebook with Eric’s cramped handwriting sat next to the envelopes, tallying their income and expenditures for the month. Vince winced, seeing V’s Mastercard was one of their biggest expenses. They were in debt. Of course.
He wondered if Eric had gone to college. There were no textbooks on the bookshelves, just a few random manuals - Windows for Dummies and some technical manuals that Vince didn’t know. He sat forward to read the DVD cases, and saw that two were homemade - one said “VC Birthday - 2000” and the next was “Christmas 03.” Vince started to reach for them, but the sound of a key in the lock stopped him.
“Hey,” Eric said, walking in. He hooked his keys by the door and turned, swung three locks across. “You forgot to lock the door.”
Vince thought for a moment Eric meant that day, then realized Eric meant right now. This was New York. You locked your door when you walked in, first thing. “Shit, sorry,” he said, shaking his head.
Eric shrugged. He dropped his hand on Vince’s shoulder, then walked into the kitchen. Vince heard the fridge open and close, heard the sound of a beer being opened. Eric walked back out and sat at the dining table. “You have a good day?”
Vince shrugged. “OK,” he said. “You?”
“Same shit, different day,” Eric said. He yawned. “I think, though, Grant’s really going to leave.”
Eric seemed pleased about this, and Vince echoed his tone. “Yeah?”
He nodded and took a sip of his beer - Miller Light. Christ. “I talked to Jones at lunch, I think there really might be a spot open off the floor.” He grinned. “God, wouldn’t that be nice. Nice little pay raise, too, an extra fifty cents an hour.”
Vince tried to smile. “That sounds great, E.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” He rubbed his face. He looked tired in a way that Vince recognized - the same way their fathers used to look tired. Eric, what have I done to you? he thought, looking across at him. Eric caught his eye. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Dinner?” Vince echoed. Eric raised his eyebrow. “Wait, was I supposed to -“ and he wasn’t even sure how to finish that sentence. Cook? Surely not. Pick something up? From where? Did they have a pattern?
“Uh, yeah,” Eric said, and Vince sighed. “It’s your week, babe.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t - I just, I didn’t think about it,” Vince said.
Eric rolled his eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” he said, “or I’d be tempted to find a guy who can cook.”
“Yeah, good thing,” Vince said. It was weird to hear Eric call him pretty, weirder still when Eric set his beer down and motioned that Vince should come over to him. Vince crossed the room, feeling uncertain, but let Eric pull him down into his lap. It was an awkward fit, the top of Eric’s head barely coming to Vince’s shoulder, but Eric put both arms around him and rested his cheek against Vince’s chest. He tugged on Vince’s coat.
“Lose the gear, stay awhile,” he said, and Vince laughed.
“I was cold,” he said, resting his arms on Eric’s shoulders.
Eric looked up. “I’ll keep you warm,” he said, and Vince smiled.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” he said, cupping Eric’s face in his hand.
“It’s all right,” Eric said. “I wasn’t that hungry, anyway.”
Vince’s stomach registered its protest as he realized what Eric was saying. Because Vince hadn’t cooked, there would be no dinner. “We could get pizza or something,” Vince said, and Eric snorted.
“What, did you win the lottery on the way home?” He shook his head. “I saw your lunch is still in the fridge, by the way.”
“Yeah,” Vince said. “I forgot.” He'd paid $7.50 for a sandwich and hadn't even thought about it. He rested his head on top of Eric’s. “I’m having a weird day.”
“I can tell,” Eric said. “You haven’t even given me the five minute Franklin wrap-up yet.”
Vince groaned. “That guy never stops talking, huh?”
“He still seeing the bitch from the Bronx?”
“I have no idea,” Vince admitted.
Eric laughed and squeezed him. “He’s your friend.”
“But he has a crush on you.”
“Mm.”
Eventually, they got up, and Vince found his lunch - an apple, yogurt, and two turkey sandwiches in a paper bag - in the fridge and split it with Eric. They watched a little network TV sitting on the loveseat, then Vince got out his lines to review while Eric bent over his little notebook with their bills. So this is what we do at night? Vince thought, but he didn’t want to ask. Besides, he needed to study.
Eric finally threw the notebook down as the nightly news came on, and he sunk back into the couch by Vince. Vince set his script down and put an arm around him. “How’s it look, boss?” he asked.
“Same as always,” he said. “Shitty.”
“I’m sorry,” Vince murmured. “That credit card balance is killing us, huh?”
“Hey, you can’t help it,” Eric said. He touched Vince’s face, his fingers drawing a line across Vince’s forehead and cheek that tickled, just faintly. Eric kissed him. “You have a lot more to do? I thought you had that down.”
“Just, uh, there were a few changes,” Vince said. Eric’s hand slipped up under his shirt, his fingers rubbed softly over Vince’s belly. “Nothing, really, I’m done,” he murmured, meeting Eric’s mouth and setting the script on the coffee table.
Maybe it should have been weird to make out with Eric, but here, again, his current body had memories that Vince didn’t. Unlike acting, though, Vince stayed present for this, so that when he gasped as Eric put his mouth on Vince’s erection, it was real feeling, real surprise and desire; when he moaned as Eric slid back, it was real disappointment. Eric shook his head.
“The floor is fucking freezing,” he said, laughing and getting up from his knees. “I’m sorry, baby, but we’re gonna have to move this to the bedroom.”
Vince swallowed. “I don’t think I can move,” he said, letting his hand fall to his cock.
Eric pulled his hand away and kissed it, and Vince stared at him, amazed and aroused. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said.
Vince swallowed, then nodded and stood up, holding his jeans with one hand. Eric turned off the light, so the apartment was cast in the orange glow of the streetlights and traffic below. “Brush your teeth, I’ll be there in a minute,” Eric said, disappearing into the kitchen, and Vince did as he was told. He shucked his jeans, then realized they were probably what he was wearing the next day, too, and so hung them over the chair as before. Then he went to the bathroom and reached for his toothbrush - and stopped.
There was no steam to obscure the mirror, this time, nothing between him and the reflection of his face. His damaged face.
He gasped, and the toothbrush fell into the sink. This face - this couldn’t be - but it was. It was him. It was his face, his eyes, his mouth, even his beard, which meant that it had to be his scar he was seeing, a jagged pink line running from the left side of his forehead down, around his eye, over his cheekbone and then down to his jaw. It was partially obscured by his beard - and now Vince wondered if that wasn’t the reason for it, not the role on stage - but it wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t something you could look past. He was - there was no other word for it - disfigured. His left eyebrow, when he tried to lift it, felt stiff, and he realized there was scar tissue there. And his nose was fucked up, too - crooked, with a bump on the bridge.
What had happened? What the fuck - he swallowed, feeling dizzy, and gripped the sink, but couldn’t look away from his face. Was this the story? Was this what hadn’t worked in L.A.? Or had he never even made it?
“Hey,” Eric said, putting his hand on Vince’s back, and Vince saw his eyes in the mirror - worried, sad, but not surprised. “Hey, stop,” he said, drawing Vince back and around. Vince was still shaky and stunned, and he folded into Eric’s embrace easily, pulled him close. “Come on, I thought we were past this,” Eric said, rubbing his back.
“Caught me by surprise,” Vince said. His voice was all throat; he felt tears forming.
Eric reached over and turned out the bathroom light, so they were in the dark again, the reflection now invisible. “It’s OK,” he said, still rubbing, still holding him. “You’re OK.”
Vince nodded. He listened to Eric’s voice, pushed away his fear and panic. OK. This was all just a dream, or a fuck-up, anyway. He wasn’t really here. This wasn’t his real life. “I’m OK,” he said, and Eric looked up at him.
“OK,” he said. He kissed Vince’s neck. “Come on, it’s freezing.”
Vince sat on the bed, then crawled to the far side, near the wall, where he’d woken up that morning. Eric adjusted the alarm clock, then turned to him, propped himself up on one elbow. “Vin,” he said, and Vince looked up at him. There was concern and compassion in Eric’s eyes, and something else, a tiny bit of fear, that made Vince feel uncertain. What had happened? How could he find out? “Seriously, you’ve been doing so well,” he said. He turned on his side, pulled one of Vince’s hands up into his own. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Vince said. “I don’t know. Off day.”
Eric nodded. He kissed Vince’s fingers. “As long as it’s just a day,” he said. “Baby, everything’s finally going good again, you know?” He looked up at Vince. “You remember what you said to me in the hospital?”
Vince blinked. “Remind me.”
“You said, ‘Now I’m never gonna be an actor.’ And I told you we’d get through this, right? I promised. And look. Look at you - you’ve made it, huh? Off-Broadway! You stick this out, once it opens - Vince, come on,” he said, and Vince realized he’d let his face slide, let himself express some of the dismay he was feeling.
This was it? This was living the dream? Of course it was. Off-Broadway was, in fact, a great place to end up - most actors never made it that far. But - it wasn’t Hollywood. It wasn’t fans lining the block to catch a glimpse of his car, it wasn’t the new box office record, it wasn’t James Cameron making him an offer. It wasn’t even Billy Walsh. It might be a comfortable loft, after a few years, but it would never mean his picture on the front of Premiere.
He’d really thought that stuff didn’t matter to him, the toys, the money - but right now, he felt he’d give anything to have Ari on speed dial, to have a list of friends who would know exactly which plastic surgeon was his best hope.
“Hey,” Eric said, and Vince looked down at him. Eric touched his face, the left cheek - the bad cheek - gently. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry,” Vince said. How bad had things been, that Eric was scared? Vince could guess. He swallowed. “Don’t worry.” He smiled, his best effort. “I was just - I was thinking about the hospital, I guess. Not this gig, I know it’s good. I’m happy,” he said, and Eric nodded. “I really am, E, I promise.”
“OK,” Eric said, and Vince nodded and kissed him.
“OK,” he agreed. “See? Happy.”
Eric smiled. “Not as happy as you were earlier,” he said, and his thigh slid between Vince’s legs.
“That wouldn’t take much work,” Vince assured him, as Eric kissed him. Well, this life has its advantages, too, Vince thought, sliding Eric’s shirt off, his hands tracing the musculature of his back. “You’re so hot,” Vince whispered, and Eric laughed.
“You’re gonna get laid without the compliments,” Eric said, helping Vince shimmy out of his shorts. “But it’s nice to be noticed.”
“I always notice you,” Vince said, and then gasped when Eric fisted his cock. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Touchy today,” Eric said, grinning. “I like it.”
Eric also, apparently, liked going down on him, which Vince was totally in favor of, and he liked fucking him, which, again, Vince could not vote against. He came with his head arched back against the pillow and Eric gasping into his shoulder; then he wrapped Eric up in his arms and fell asleep wondering if maybe this was a fair trade off, after all.
The next day started just as cold and just as early, but Vince was less foggy. He remembered his lunch, which he realized Eric had packed last night, and his keys, locked the door, made it to the station on time. He listened to Franklin talk - he was still dating “the bitch from the Bronx,” whose name was Kenneth - and thought about his lines, the blocking, the notes he’d memorized the night before. That was safer than wondering if anyone was staring at him. Usually, attention didn’t bother him - but usually, people looked because they recognized him, not because they were wondering where the scars had come from.
Rehearsal went better, so when he left the theater at 6, he was just as wrung out as the day before but not so dispirited. Back in the apartment, he found boxed spaghetti and canned tomatoes and directions for making a simple enough sauce. He followed the directions to get it all cooking, using the only two pans he could find, and wondered, for the first time, where the guys were. Where was Johnny? Turtle? He looked at his phone, found numbers for both - including an L.A. number for his brother. He considered calling it, but decided maybe he should try to get some details out of Eric first.
Eric came home around 7:30, looking really tired, and sat at the dining table with a beer while Vince poured the spaghetti and sauce into bowls. He’d even found some canned parmesan in the refrigerator, which Eric poured liberally into his bowl. The sauce was a little bitter, but Vince felt proud of it, anyway.
He made an effort to talk brightly over dinner about his day, about Franklin, the theater, how good things were, and he watched Eric’s mood lift as Vince kept going. So this is how we work, he thought, as Eric laughed at Vince’s impression of Franklin on the train.
“You wanna do something this weekend?” Vince asked after he’d cleared the dishes. He put his hands on Eric’s shoulders and rubbed, and Eric groaned.
“Anything,” Eric said, “if you’ll keep doing that.”
“Maybe a movie?” Vince asked. “A matinee?”
“Or a second-run,” Eric said. “Sunday, though. Don’t forget Turtle’s coming over tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah,” Vince said, trying to sound casual when he was thinking: yes! Turtle he could pump for information.
Eric’s head tipped back, and he looked straight up at Vince. “You promised me,” he said, and Vince blinked. “Whatever he’s doing - you gotta stay away. Right?”
“I know,” Vince said. Maybe this was what Franklin had been talking about. Vince kissed Eric’s forehead. “I swear.”
“OK.”
“God, you’re in knots,” Vince said, and Eric groaned again. He bent forward, resting his head on the table while Vince worked on a particularly hard ball beneath his shoulder.
“I really want this promotion,” he said. “If I never have to haul another box, babe, it’s too soon.”
Vince kissed the nape of Eric’s neck. He wondered what had happened to the Sbarro’s job, what had happened to college, all of Eric’s plans. How the fuck, if Vince was still doing theater, had Eric been sucked back into the warehouse world their fathers had fought to escape? “Come lie down, relax,” he said, and after a moment Eric agreed. He put his head in Vince’s lap on the couch, kicked his feet up over the arm, and they watched TV for a while. Eric closed his eyes and held one of Vince’s hands in his own. It should have been boring, but it wasn’t - it was kind of nice. Every few minutes, Vince laughed at something on TV and then watched Eric smile in response. As the commercials rolled, Eric made cracks about the products or the shows, and Vince was glad, so glad, to see he was really the same old Eric, under there. Sharp and sarcastic and sweet.
When the news came on, Vince nudged him toward bed, and Eric went willingly. They brushed their teeth at the same time, Vince keeping his eyes averted from the mirror, and then curled up together in bed. Eric kissed him before he turned out the lights. “I love you,” he said, and Vince smiled.
“I love you, too.”
[argh, tried to post in one but it was too long. So: Part 2]
Author: fourteencandles
Fandom: Entourage
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Length: 15,000 words. I know! Tiny!
Series: Not yet.
Summary: Vince wonders what it would have been like, if things were different. And then he finds out.
Notes: It's sort of an AU. You can read it like that, or like a dream, or... hey, you can read it right to left and upside down if you want to. :) Thanks to shoshannagold for talking me through it a couple of times.
Best of Both Worlds
They had been sniping at each other all week, maybe even all month; it was so bad that Thursday morning, Vince woke up annoyed at Eric. It didn’t help that Eric was already pounding on his door, saying, “We’re gonna be late, asshole.” Vince groaned and yelled back a couple names of his own, then got up and dressed and ready. Turtle was already gone for the day, or maybe had been gone since last night - no one really wanted to hang out with the two of them anymore, and Vince couldn’t blame them. All he and Eric did was fight.
That morning, they stopped along the way for coffee (they didn’t fight, at least, about who was going to pay, though Eric gave Vince a really fucking annoying look when he ordered a regular latte instead of a soy version) and Eric played the radio loud so they wouldn’t have to talk en route. Vince concentrated on thinking about the meeting ahead, not about what a fucking prissy prick Eric could be, with his ironed Armani shirt and his precise way of driving and his goddamned obnoxious habit of checking his cell phone clock every time they stopped even though there was a perfectly good clock on the dash, if it was soooo vital that Eric make a point about being late.
He wished MGA was closer to the house.
They managed to make it to the building without saying much of anything, but on the way in, Eric said, “He’s gonna want you to sign for Sustainable Energy.”
“Not until Johnny’s in the contract,” Vince said.
“Vince, come on,” Eric said. They’d had this talk a hundred times before, and Eric just didn’t get it. Vince had promised Johnny a role - it was the least they could do. He didn’t even care if the thing got cut later on. “Take your career seriously, for once, would you?”
“I take it seriously,” Vince said. “It’s a good fucking movie, right? So why shouldn’t Johnny have a shot at it? He’s my brother, you want me to just ignore him?”
“You want this director to just ignore you?” Eric asked. They stopped in front of the elevators and waited for one to open. Though Vince hoped for a cute secretary or someone to join them and, maybe, deflate the anger, there was no one else around, so they got into the first one alone. “You keep this up, you’re gonna get a difficult reputation. And reputations fucking matter.”
“Oh, did you just figure that out?” Vince muttered.
Eric hit the button for Ari’s floor and stood close to the doors as they closed, and Vince lounged against the back wall, not at all thinking about how fun it would be to kick Eric from there. “I’ve been here half as long as you,” Eric said.
“Whose fucking fault is that?” Vince asked.
“It’s -”
The elevator stopped with a jolt. Vince felt a weird, momentary tingle along his spine, and he jerked his hand away from the little metal handrail, saw that Eric was doing the same.
“What the fucking fuck?” Eric said, shaking out his hand.
“We’re stuck,” Vince said.
Eric jabbed at the buttons; when nothing happened, he whipped out his cell phone and called Lloyd. Two minutes later, they were moving again. Vince felt a little shaken up by the experience, but they got out OK and there was a little crowd of on-lookers when they got off, so he didn’t say anything. In a way, he was glad for the malfunction, because it had stopped his fight with Eric cold.
In fact, they made it through the rest of the day without fighting, which was a miracle, and that night they finished off a bottle of Cabernet and had a nice talk, the first time they’d come close to getting along in weeks.
“You know, I wish I would have come out here with you, after high school,” Eric said, a little drunk. “I should have listened.”
“Or I should have,” Vince said. “I never should have left without you.”
“Things would be different,” Eric said, and then he shrugged. “Well, maybe not.”
“Yeah,” Vince agreed. “I think - no matter what, this is where we would have ended up. Maybe not so different at all.”
But he went to bed thinking about it, and all of the ways that things could have been different, and he couldn’t help wondering about - and maybe even wishing for - what things would have been like if he hadn’t left New York without Eric by his side. He couldn’t help thinking that maybe they’d be happier now.
He woke to an unfamiliar, high-pitched beeping, then a familiar groan. Vince opened his eyes and watched Eric’s arm sail across and turn off the alarm. “Ugh,” Eric muttered, and he kissed the side of Vince’s head.
It worked, Vince thought, and he smiled, fought the urge to sit upright and cheer. He got his wish. So this is what it would've been like, Eric snuggled close. No more fighting. The new world seemed good so far. Vince stayed perfectly still, wondering how much, exactly, had changed. The ceiling was definitely unfamiliar - low, made up of the foamy tiles they used to have in school in New York.
New York.
Vince did sit up, then, because he knew exactly where they were: he could hear the traffic outside, could see the amber glow of city darkness through the Venetian blinds on the window. He was in New York. With Eric. In an apartment.
It worked.
Eric’s hand rested on his back. “Hey, you OK?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Vince said. He turned and looked down at Eric. He looked the same - well, OK, not exactly the same. His haircut was different, shorter, and there was a thin scar through his right eyebrow. Vince reached out to touch that with his thumb, and Eric closed his eyes, leaned into his hand.
“Tempting,” he said, kissing Vince’s palm, “but I’ve already been late once this month. No way I can do two days.” He pulled back and grinned. Then, before Vince could say anything, Eric turned and slid out of bed. He let in a blast of cold air that made Vince hiss and flop back down into the blankets. The sheets were kind of scratchy, but the space Eric had just left was warm. Vince put his head on Eric’s pillow and watched him collecting clothes from a narrow, beat-up dresser - a dresser Vince recognized as the one that used to sit in Eric’s room at his mom’s place.
What Vince didn’t recognize was the ripple of muscle across Eric’s back as he stripped off his undershirt. Eric was fit in the world Vince knew, sure, but here - Eric was ripped. Vince couldn’t help staring.
Eric looked over his shoulder. “Don’t go back to sleep,” he said. “You gotta meet Franklin at 9, right?”
Vince blinked. “Sure,” he said. Franklin? Fuck. He glanced at the clock. It was 7:30.
Eric had already ducked into the bathroom, which was just outside the bedroom door - if this could be called a bedroom. There was barely enough room between the bed and the dresser to walk, and only a narrow closet. Vince knew he should get up and investigate, but it was cold; he would wait for Eric to get done, then maybe he could figure more of this out. He wondered if this was his place or Eric’s, then decided, based on the dresser, that it was Eric’s.
He dozed again and woke to Eric’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Seriously, babe,” he said. “Get a shower, you’ll feel better. I hung your shirt up in the bathroom, too, to get less wrinkly.”
“Thanks,” Vince murmured. Eric kissed him on the mouth, a nice kiss, quick but sweet, and Vince opened his eyes.
Eric smiled at him. “See you after work.”
Vince nodded. Once he heard the door close, he pushed himself out of bed. It was still cold, so he hustled into the bathroom, which was warm and steamy, the mirror fogged over. There were two toothbrushes in the holder, and Vince stared at them and realized he wasn't just in Eric's apartment -- he was in the apartment he and Eric were sharing. That tiny bedroom was theirs. Vince looked around: there were two towels hanging from a hook on the door, next to his shirt. He flipped open the medicine cabinet. It was empty, except for an unopened bottle of lubricant. Vince laughed. OK, he thought, small apartment, but we still know how to have fun. He picked up the nearest toothbrush -- who knew which was which - and stepped into the shower, grateful for warm water. He started to wash his face and realized he had a beard - well, that was fine, one less step to go through. He used the cheap shampoo next to the tub and a bar of soap that smelled exactly like Eric’s pillow.
He did feel better after his shower, warmer, refreshed. A black, long-sleeved button-down was hanging from the back of the door, and Vince slid it on. He took a guess at whose underwear was whose, then found a pair of jeans over the back of a chair in the kitchen that were definitely his. His shoes were by the door, next to a small black cell phone. “Thank God,” he muttered, checking the address book.
He hit dial when he found Franklin’s name.
“You can’t already be running late,” a high-pitched voice grumbled.
“No,” Vince said, affecting a laugh. “No, I just - this is stupid, but, uh, where are we meeting?”
There was a pause. “Uh, same place we’ve been meeting for the last four weeks.” Another pause, as Vince pounded his forehead with his fist. “Baby, tell me you’re not on something.”
“What? No,” Vince said. “No, I swear, I just - look, uh, you ever, like, wake up weird? I mean - like I was having this dream, and now I’m all mixed up.” He bit his lip, hoping that would work. “That ever happen to you?”
“Only every fucking day,” Franklin said. “Wake the fuck up, all right? I’ll see you in an hour at the station - that’s the Queensboro Plaza, OK? In case you fall back to dreamland.”
“Queensboro,” Vince repeated, and hung up. Queenboro Plaza - Queens Boulevard. He entertained the possibility, for a moment, that he was in his own movie, but no. No, Eric was here.
He glanced out the window and couldn’t tell immediately where he was, which was alarming. He could be in College Point or something, which would mean he was already running late. He found a coat hanging on a crooked rack by the door, pulled on gloves and a hat, and hurried outside - and into a narrow, dimly lit hallway, fresh out of his childhood. The place smelled dank even in the cold, which was at least ten degrees worse out here already. Vince shivered and started down the stairs - it was four flights to the floor.
Outside, he got his bearings pretty quickly, heading for the street to the right with traffic. Kissena Boulevard. Flushing. OK. He hurried toward Main Street, watching his step, dodging the crush of shoppers and early-morning strollers, hearing curses and teases being bandied around in Chinese, Korean. He hadn’t been back here in years, but he found the station for the 7 train easy enough. Inside, he had a moment of panic - he hadn’t thought about his wallet before leaving - but he found subway tokens in his pocket, next to his keys (something else he’d forgot to check for). He dropped a token in and ran to the track, squeezed into a train a second away from leaving the station.
So. Back in New York. He was living in a small, shitty apartment, with Eric, and apparently he had something to do with some guy named Franklin. Something that apparently didn’t require dressing up, which seemed like a plus, unless - Vince swallowed. Unless he was on his way to some truly horrible job. He remembered Eric’s muscular arms and surreptitiously felt his own. Not so ripped, but still strong. Moving boxes, maybe, or loading shit at the docks, or - Christ, who knew where he was headed. Vince hadn't done any heavy lifting since junior high, not outside of a gym, and the prospect was daunting. He wanted to sit down, but there was no room, so he rested his head against his bent arm.
By the time he reached Queensboro Plaza, Vince was feeling a little better. If it was a really shitty job, well, he’d just leave. This wasn’t his real life, after all. He stepped off the train and into the crush of the Subway at rush hour - not something he enjoyed, but his body, this body, seemed familiar with it, seemed to know exactly how to dodge, twist, shift away from the people flooding onto the train. He wondered how he was supposed to know Franklin, if they had a usual meeting place. The station was bogged down in repairs at the moment, too - Vince had no idea how to get anywhere, which didn’t really matter, he figured, because he didn’t know where he was going. At this point, he figured he’d be lucky to make it home in one piece. Jesus, had he really been away from home for this long? New York used to be easy to navigate for him, when he and Eric and Turtle had been running around as kids. But right now - he felt disoriented in a couple of different ways, and he missed the ease of life in L.A. - car services, Turtle driving him around, valets. He’d left Queens for reasons beyond wanting to make it in the movies.
He glanced at his watch - and then realized he wasn’t wearing one. Even better. He walked to the Queensboro Plaza sign and slumped next to it, hoping Franklin - whoever he was - would just find him. He’d give him a couple trains, then he’d figure out how to get on the eastbound line again.
”Jesus, you are out of it,” he heard, a second before a hand clamped onto his arm.
A skinny blonde guy with watery blue eyes was shaking his head at Vince. “Franklin?”
“I thought you promised E you were done with this shit,” he said, his grip tightening.
“I’m not on anything,” Vince said, shaking his hand off. "I swear."
Franklin gave him a quick once-over that made Vince feel uncomfortable. He wondered what, exactly, his relationship to Franklin was. Surely he wasn’t cheating on Eric. “You better hope not,” Franklin said. His tone was friendly, teasing. “’Cuz you fuck things up and I’m totally going after him.”
Vince rolled his eyes. “Like he’d go for you,” Vince said, and Franklin laughed.
“Honey, don’t knock what you haven’t tried,” he said, and looped his arm with Vince’s. Well, that answers that, Vince thought. “Come on, dreamy, we’re gonna be late, as usual.”
Franklin navigated the station like a pro, and Vince got the feeling that this wasn’t unusual at all, that Franklin always took the lead. So I’m managed even here, he thought, and felt a little better. Beyond that, Franklin clearly wasn’t cut out for manual labor - Vince envied his thin leather gloves - so maybe things were going better than he hoped. Maybe Franklin was his manager here.
They took the W train, and Vince felt a brief thrill - Broadway? If he was in a show there, it shouldn't be too hard to get his life back on track. He could call one of the New York agents, get them down to see a show. From there, it wasn't a long trip to Ari's attention, and Vince had to believe that even in this world, Ari was out there somewhere, just waiting for him. A couple of months, they'd ditch the shitty apartment and the subway and get things back together.
They got off at the Times Square station, Franklin chattering the whole way about his landlady and some fight they’d had over his cat. All Vince wanted to do was make him slow down, get him to answer a few questions, but he couldn’t get a word in. As they reached the top of the stairs, Vince stopped, not sure which way to turn.
“You really are out of it today, huh?”
Vince looked back at him from the busy hustle of Times Square. He’d spent New Years’ Eve here, two years ago, met Dick Clarke, even, made a brief appearance on his telecast to promote an upcoming film. Eric had been there, and they’d laughed and toasted everything that happened with champagne. “I guess,” Vince said. “I dunno, maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Franklin stepped to the side. “Don’t even joke,” he hissed, grabbing Vince’s arm. “Come on, for that you can buy me coffee.”
They got a cup apiece on the way to the theater - small, cheap, plain coffee from a sidewalk vendor - and then Franklin continued his lead, away from Broadway onto 7th, then a right, a left, Vince could barely keep up, let alone pay attention. His feet were freezing; his hands were turning red and white around the coffee cup, which he couldn’t make himself drink. He wanted a latte. He wanted a driver. He did this every day?
“Here we are!” Franklin said, stopping abruptly in front of what looked like a chrome-fronted office building. “Home sweet home.”
Vince swallowed. OK, he was an accountant. An off Broadway accountant. Maybe a mail-room worker. His hands were so tight on the coffee that he crushed the cup and jumped backward to avoid the spill.
“You’re a wreck,” Franklin said, pulling him through the doors.
They were in a theater. Oh, thank Christ, Vince thought, sucking one burnt finger into his mouth. It was a small theater, sure, and clearly still in the process of being set up, but a theater none-the-less; he could smell make-up and powder. He could see klieg lights stacked in the halls, scaffolding, cans of paint. Thank God I’m still an actor.
Franklin grabbed both of his arms. “Please tell me, for serious, you aren’t fighting with your beautiful boy, are you?”
“No,” Vince said, shaking his head. “We’re fine.” He thought of Eric’s soft kiss that morning. “We’re better than fine. I just have a headache.”
Franklin grinned. “Hit your head on the headboard?” he asked, then snickered. “God, you’re probably sore, too. I’m so tired of being jealous.” He gave Vince a shove. “Go on, go on, get your stuff together, I’ll see you at break.”
With Franklin gone, Vince had no idea where to go - but he didn’t feel lost, now. He knew theaters. He walked down the hall, following the noise. A red-haired girl in a leotard smiled and slapped his ass as he walked past, saying, “Morning, sweetie,” and Vince grinned back at her.
Things weren’t so bad, after all.
He left the theater at 6. It was almost a relief to break back into the cold; the street around them was quiet, or made so by the frigid temperatures. Franklin, next to him, was just as silent. Vince had forgotten how grueling theater could be. He’d been lucky, in some ways - they weren’t off book yet, so he hadn’t had to worry about forgetting his lines, and his body seemed to know where he belonged on the stage. In that way, it was like every performance he’d ever done. He just turned it over to instinct, and things happened. He was playing a villain - not the lead role, which surprised him a little, but a meaty part. It was fun, actually, to play the bad guy for once, and Vince could see the things that would have called to him in the role.
But he’d been off a bit, because it was impossible not to think, impossible to get out of the film mindset of long breaks, optional reshoots, all of that. So there had been a little bit of yelling and a lot of strange looks, and Vince felt like he’d been apologizing for eight hours straight.
“I take it back,” Franklin muttered as they walked back uptown. “Maybe you should be on something.”
Vince rubbed his forehead. He had the book in his jacket, ready to take home and study. There were tiny cryptic markings in his own hand all over the script, and he needed to memorize them all by the morning, or the director was going to shoot him.
They took the same trains as before and got out at Queensboro Plaza. Franklin squinted at the sky. “It’s dark so fucking early now,” he said, shaking his head. “Listen, you want me to ride with you, walk you home?”
Shit, Vince thought. He wasn’t sure if this was a come on or what. “Nah, I’m fine,” he said.
Franklin raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Vince said. “But thanks.”
“Anytime, darling,” Franklin said, and then leaned in to kiss his cheeks, which caught Vince by surprise. He didn’t have time to dwell, though - his train was getting ready to leave. He staggered on board and found a seat - thank fucking God - and almost fell asleep before the Flushing stop.
He experienced the same flurry of disorientation when he stepped off the platform there, but took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could picture his walk from the morning. Kissena, he thought, and stepped into the cold.
The apartment was dark when he walked in, even though the door was unlocked - and oh, Vince thought, his stomach seizing, that was totally his fault. He’d left the place unlocked. He flicked on the light and gave a quick glance around. It didn’t look like anything was missing, but how could he be sure? He’d barely looked at the place that morning.
Now, he took his time, standing by the door, still wearing his hat and coat against the apartment’s chill. There was one room, a living room/dining room combo with a tiny kitchen next to it. They had a denim-covered loveseat with tears in the arm, a worn oak coffee table, and a small - maybe 14” - television sitting on a stand that Vince realized used to be an end table at his mother’s house. The matching end table was next to the loveseat. Behind the TV, against the wall, was a small dining table - about 3 feet square - with two wooden chairs pushed up to it. Just behind the table, a bookshelf made from unfinished lumber and cinder blocks held a few books, a beat up CD player and a stack of CDs, and a few dozen DVDs. On the top, there was a spider plant - wilting - and a framed photo of Vince and Eric that Vince picked up. It was a nice photo, looked like it had been taken at a party, maybe: in it, Vince was kissing Eric’s cheek, his arms around Eric, and Eric had one arm around him, too, and was toasting the camera with a beer, a sweet, happy smile on his face.
So they were together and they were out. That explained some things: the girls at the theater had been friendly, today, but not overly so. None of them had been truly flirtatious, and that was pretty off. Maybe they'd all met Eric. Maybe, in this world, Vince didn't show them any interest. It seemed possible, and Vince sort of liked the idea that he was that guy -- loyal, committed, not even willing to look beyond his partner. It was as good an explanation as any.
Vince took a seat on the couch, nestling his cold hands under his legs to stay warm. Everything was neat, clean, orderly, but the place still felt shabby - probably because it was. The ceiling had water stains, the floor - which was wood - was uneven and creaky. Two throw rugs tried to cover that, but they were as effective as the tacked up band posters. This place was a dump, and it was probably breaking their bank just to stay here.
A stack of mail sat on the coffee table, and Vince could guess what he’d see inside: unpaid bills. A small notebook with Eric’s cramped handwriting sat next to the envelopes, tallying their income and expenditures for the month. Vince winced, seeing V’s Mastercard was one of their biggest expenses. They were in debt. Of course.
He wondered if Eric had gone to college. There were no textbooks on the bookshelves, just a few random manuals - Windows for Dummies and some technical manuals that Vince didn’t know. He sat forward to read the DVD cases, and saw that two were homemade - one said “VC Birthday - 2000” and the next was “Christmas 03.” Vince started to reach for them, but the sound of a key in the lock stopped him.
“Hey,” Eric said, walking in. He hooked his keys by the door and turned, swung three locks across. “You forgot to lock the door.”
Vince thought for a moment Eric meant that day, then realized Eric meant right now. This was New York. You locked your door when you walked in, first thing. “Shit, sorry,” he said, shaking his head.
Eric shrugged. He dropped his hand on Vince’s shoulder, then walked into the kitchen. Vince heard the fridge open and close, heard the sound of a beer being opened. Eric walked back out and sat at the dining table. “You have a good day?”
Vince shrugged. “OK,” he said. “You?”
“Same shit, different day,” Eric said. He yawned. “I think, though, Grant’s really going to leave.”
Eric seemed pleased about this, and Vince echoed his tone. “Yeah?”
He nodded and took a sip of his beer - Miller Light. Christ. “I talked to Jones at lunch, I think there really might be a spot open off the floor.” He grinned. “God, wouldn’t that be nice. Nice little pay raise, too, an extra fifty cents an hour.”
Vince tried to smile. “That sounds great, E.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” He rubbed his face. He looked tired in a way that Vince recognized - the same way their fathers used to look tired. Eric, what have I done to you? he thought, looking across at him. Eric caught his eye. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Dinner?” Vince echoed. Eric raised his eyebrow. “Wait, was I supposed to -“ and he wasn’t even sure how to finish that sentence. Cook? Surely not. Pick something up? From where? Did they have a pattern?
“Uh, yeah,” Eric said, and Vince sighed. “It’s your week, babe.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t - I just, I didn’t think about it,” Vince said.
Eric rolled his eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” he said, “or I’d be tempted to find a guy who can cook.”
“Yeah, good thing,” Vince said. It was weird to hear Eric call him pretty, weirder still when Eric set his beer down and motioned that Vince should come over to him. Vince crossed the room, feeling uncertain, but let Eric pull him down into his lap. It was an awkward fit, the top of Eric’s head barely coming to Vince’s shoulder, but Eric put both arms around him and rested his cheek against Vince’s chest. He tugged on Vince’s coat.
“Lose the gear, stay awhile,” he said, and Vince laughed.
“I was cold,” he said, resting his arms on Eric’s shoulders.
Eric looked up. “I’ll keep you warm,” he said, and Vince smiled.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” he said, cupping Eric’s face in his hand.
“It’s all right,” Eric said. “I wasn’t that hungry, anyway.”
Vince’s stomach registered its protest as he realized what Eric was saying. Because Vince hadn’t cooked, there would be no dinner. “We could get pizza or something,” Vince said, and Eric snorted.
“What, did you win the lottery on the way home?” He shook his head. “I saw your lunch is still in the fridge, by the way.”
“Yeah,” Vince said. “I forgot.” He'd paid $7.50 for a sandwich and hadn't even thought about it. He rested his head on top of Eric’s. “I’m having a weird day.”
“I can tell,” Eric said. “You haven’t even given me the five minute Franklin wrap-up yet.”
Vince groaned. “That guy never stops talking, huh?”
“He still seeing the bitch from the Bronx?”
“I have no idea,” Vince admitted.
Eric laughed and squeezed him. “He’s your friend.”
“But he has a crush on you.”
“Mm.”
Eventually, they got up, and Vince found his lunch - an apple, yogurt, and two turkey sandwiches in a paper bag - in the fridge and split it with Eric. They watched a little network TV sitting on the loveseat, then Vince got out his lines to review while Eric bent over his little notebook with their bills. So this is what we do at night? Vince thought, but he didn’t want to ask. Besides, he needed to study.
Eric finally threw the notebook down as the nightly news came on, and he sunk back into the couch by Vince. Vince set his script down and put an arm around him. “How’s it look, boss?” he asked.
“Same as always,” he said. “Shitty.”
“I’m sorry,” Vince murmured. “That credit card balance is killing us, huh?”
“Hey, you can’t help it,” Eric said. He touched Vince’s face, his fingers drawing a line across Vince’s forehead and cheek that tickled, just faintly. Eric kissed him. “You have a lot more to do? I thought you had that down.”
“Just, uh, there were a few changes,” Vince said. Eric’s hand slipped up under his shirt, his fingers rubbed softly over Vince’s belly. “Nothing, really, I’m done,” he murmured, meeting Eric’s mouth and setting the script on the coffee table.
Maybe it should have been weird to make out with Eric, but here, again, his current body had memories that Vince didn’t. Unlike acting, though, Vince stayed present for this, so that when he gasped as Eric put his mouth on Vince’s erection, it was real feeling, real surprise and desire; when he moaned as Eric slid back, it was real disappointment. Eric shook his head.
“The floor is fucking freezing,” he said, laughing and getting up from his knees. “I’m sorry, baby, but we’re gonna have to move this to the bedroom.”
Vince swallowed. “I don’t think I can move,” he said, letting his hand fall to his cock.
Eric pulled his hand away and kissed it, and Vince stared at him, amazed and aroused. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said.
Vince swallowed, then nodded and stood up, holding his jeans with one hand. Eric turned off the light, so the apartment was cast in the orange glow of the streetlights and traffic below. “Brush your teeth, I’ll be there in a minute,” Eric said, disappearing into the kitchen, and Vince did as he was told. He shucked his jeans, then realized they were probably what he was wearing the next day, too, and so hung them over the chair as before. Then he went to the bathroom and reached for his toothbrush - and stopped.
There was no steam to obscure the mirror, this time, nothing between him and the reflection of his face. His damaged face.
He gasped, and the toothbrush fell into the sink. This face - this couldn’t be - but it was. It was him. It was his face, his eyes, his mouth, even his beard, which meant that it had to be his scar he was seeing, a jagged pink line running from the left side of his forehead down, around his eye, over his cheekbone and then down to his jaw. It was partially obscured by his beard - and now Vince wondered if that wasn’t the reason for it, not the role on stage - but it wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t something you could look past. He was - there was no other word for it - disfigured. His left eyebrow, when he tried to lift it, felt stiff, and he realized there was scar tissue there. And his nose was fucked up, too - crooked, with a bump on the bridge.
What had happened? What the fuck - he swallowed, feeling dizzy, and gripped the sink, but couldn’t look away from his face. Was this the story? Was this what hadn’t worked in L.A.? Or had he never even made it?
“Hey,” Eric said, putting his hand on Vince’s back, and Vince saw his eyes in the mirror - worried, sad, but not surprised. “Hey, stop,” he said, drawing Vince back and around. Vince was still shaky and stunned, and he folded into Eric’s embrace easily, pulled him close. “Come on, I thought we were past this,” Eric said, rubbing his back.
“Caught me by surprise,” Vince said. His voice was all throat; he felt tears forming.
Eric reached over and turned out the bathroom light, so they were in the dark again, the reflection now invisible. “It’s OK,” he said, still rubbing, still holding him. “You’re OK.”
Vince nodded. He listened to Eric’s voice, pushed away his fear and panic. OK. This was all just a dream, or a fuck-up, anyway. He wasn’t really here. This wasn’t his real life. “I’m OK,” he said, and Eric looked up at him.
“OK,” he said. He kissed Vince’s neck. “Come on, it’s freezing.”
Vince sat on the bed, then crawled to the far side, near the wall, where he’d woken up that morning. Eric adjusted the alarm clock, then turned to him, propped himself up on one elbow. “Vin,” he said, and Vince looked up at him. There was concern and compassion in Eric’s eyes, and something else, a tiny bit of fear, that made Vince feel uncertain. What had happened? How could he find out? “Seriously, you’ve been doing so well,” he said. He turned on his side, pulled one of Vince’s hands up into his own. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Vince said. “I don’t know. Off day.”
Eric nodded. He kissed Vince’s fingers. “As long as it’s just a day,” he said. “Baby, everything’s finally going good again, you know?” He looked up at Vince. “You remember what you said to me in the hospital?”
Vince blinked. “Remind me.”
“You said, ‘Now I’m never gonna be an actor.’ And I told you we’d get through this, right? I promised. And look. Look at you - you’ve made it, huh? Off-Broadway! You stick this out, once it opens - Vince, come on,” he said, and Vince realized he’d let his face slide, let himself express some of the dismay he was feeling.
This was it? This was living the dream? Of course it was. Off-Broadway was, in fact, a great place to end up - most actors never made it that far. But - it wasn’t Hollywood. It wasn’t fans lining the block to catch a glimpse of his car, it wasn’t the new box office record, it wasn’t James Cameron making him an offer. It wasn’t even Billy Walsh. It might be a comfortable loft, after a few years, but it would never mean his picture on the front of Premiere.
He’d really thought that stuff didn’t matter to him, the toys, the money - but right now, he felt he’d give anything to have Ari on speed dial, to have a list of friends who would know exactly which plastic surgeon was his best hope.
“Hey,” Eric said, and Vince looked down at him. Eric touched his face, the left cheek - the bad cheek - gently. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry,” Vince said. How bad had things been, that Eric was scared? Vince could guess. He swallowed. “Don’t worry.” He smiled, his best effort. “I was just - I was thinking about the hospital, I guess. Not this gig, I know it’s good. I’m happy,” he said, and Eric nodded. “I really am, E, I promise.”
“OK,” Eric said, and Vince nodded and kissed him.
“OK,” he agreed. “See? Happy.”
Eric smiled. “Not as happy as you were earlier,” he said, and his thigh slid between Vince’s legs.
“That wouldn’t take much work,” Vince assured him, as Eric kissed him. Well, this life has its advantages, too, Vince thought, sliding Eric’s shirt off, his hands tracing the musculature of his back. “You’re so hot,” Vince whispered, and Eric laughed.
“You’re gonna get laid without the compliments,” Eric said, helping Vince shimmy out of his shorts. “But it’s nice to be noticed.”
“I always notice you,” Vince said, and then gasped when Eric fisted his cock. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Touchy today,” Eric said, grinning. “I like it.”
Eric also, apparently, liked going down on him, which Vince was totally in favor of, and he liked fucking him, which, again, Vince could not vote against. He came with his head arched back against the pillow and Eric gasping into his shoulder; then he wrapped Eric up in his arms and fell asleep wondering if maybe this was a fair trade off, after all.
The next day started just as cold and just as early, but Vince was less foggy. He remembered his lunch, which he realized Eric had packed last night, and his keys, locked the door, made it to the station on time. He listened to Franklin talk - he was still dating “the bitch from the Bronx,” whose name was Kenneth - and thought about his lines, the blocking, the notes he’d memorized the night before. That was safer than wondering if anyone was staring at him. Usually, attention didn’t bother him - but usually, people looked because they recognized him, not because they were wondering where the scars had come from.
Rehearsal went better, so when he left the theater at 6, he was just as wrung out as the day before but not so dispirited. Back in the apartment, he found boxed spaghetti and canned tomatoes and directions for making a simple enough sauce. He followed the directions to get it all cooking, using the only two pans he could find, and wondered, for the first time, where the guys were. Where was Johnny? Turtle? He looked at his phone, found numbers for both - including an L.A. number for his brother. He considered calling it, but decided maybe he should try to get some details out of Eric first.
Eric came home around 7:30, looking really tired, and sat at the dining table with a beer while Vince poured the spaghetti and sauce into bowls. He’d even found some canned parmesan in the refrigerator, which Eric poured liberally into his bowl. The sauce was a little bitter, but Vince felt proud of it, anyway.
He made an effort to talk brightly over dinner about his day, about Franklin, the theater, how good things were, and he watched Eric’s mood lift as Vince kept going. So this is how we work, he thought, as Eric laughed at Vince’s impression of Franklin on the train.
“You wanna do something this weekend?” Vince asked after he’d cleared the dishes. He put his hands on Eric’s shoulders and rubbed, and Eric groaned.
“Anything,” Eric said, “if you’ll keep doing that.”
“Maybe a movie?” Vince asked. “A matinee?”
“Or a second-run,” Eric said. “Sunday, though. Don’t forget Turtle’s coming over tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah,” Vince said, trying to sound casual when he was thinking: yes! Turtle he could pump for information.
Eric’s head tipped back, and he looked straight up at Vince. “You promised me,” he said, and Vince blinked. “Whatever he’s doing - you gotta stay away. Right?”
“I know,” Vince said. Maybe this was what Franklin had been talking about. Vince kissed Eric’s forehead. “I swear.”
“OK.”
“God, you’re in knots,” Vince said, and Eric groaned again. He bent forward, resting his head on the table while Vince worked on a particularly hard ball beneath his shoulder.
“I really want this promotion,” he said. “If I never have to haul another box, babe, it’s too soon.”
Vince kissed the nape of Eric’s neck. He wondered what had happened to the Sbarro’s job, what had happened to college, all of Eric’s plans. How the fuck, if Vince was still doing theater, had Eric been sucked back into the warehouse world their fathers had fought to escape? “Come lie down, relax,” he said, and after a moment Eric agreed. He put his head in Vince’s lap on the couch, kicked his feet up over the arm, and they watched TV for a while. Eric closed his eyes and held one of Vince’s hands in his own. It should have been boring, but it wasn’t - it was kind of nice. Every few minutes, Vince laughed at something on TV and then watched Eric smile in response. As the commercials rolled, Eric made cracks about the products or the shows, and Vince was glad, so glad, to see he was really the same old Eric, under there. Sharp and sarcastic and sweet.
When the news came on, Vince nudged him toward bed, and Eric went willingly. They brushed their teeth at the same time, Vince keeping his eyes averted from the mirror, and then curled up together in bed. Eric kissed him before he turned out the lights. “I love you,” he said, and Vince smiled.
“I love you, too.”
[argh, tried to post in one but it was too long. So: Part 2]