A heart the size of a baby's head.
"Block Ten"
Stephen Fry/Rik Mayall.
There is a time for departure, even when there is no certain place to go.
Someone asks him how he felt, being ditched like that; did he lose all respect for Stephen? Start resenting him?
"No, no," Rik says. "I was just scared. Completely fucking terrified."
"But it's all worked out now, of course," the guy says - whoever he is, Mr. Fake Posh Accent with the cheap suit and cheaper sneer, invading his circle of personal space, and who the fuck did he think he was, anyway? Talking about that at a party like this.
"I need to go get another drink," Rik says, and runs off.
He ducks into a bathroom and spends a few moments inspecting the tiny decorative soaps laid out on the sink, then stares at himself in the mirror. He needs a haircut and a shave, there's a billion wrinkles on his face that he swears weren't there a week ago. But this is self-pitying and ridiculous - it's a party, for chrissakes.
He knocks back the dregs of his rum and cola, straightens the lapels of his jacket, and saunters out.
Ø
Where the fuck is he, Gray'd asked him. Where the fuck is that fucking cunt, he's your friend, he must've fucking told you where the hell he was running off to.
Rik just shook his head, trying to swallow down the dryness in his throat.
He called Hugh, hands shaking on the receiver, voice wobbling as he left a message on the machine: Please call me back, as soon as you can. He poured himself a drink. He thought, he probably just needed a little time off. It's probably just a misunderstanding, they'll be laughing about this tomorrow.
And then it was tomorrow, and he was hungover, and no one's told him anything except Gray who was still storming around trying to find his lawyers.
"I can still do it," Rik told him when he'd slowed down for a minute. "We can try to keep this running."
"You really do like him, don't you. Poor thing. I hope he turns up all right, for your sake."
"Of course he will. He can't possibly have - "
He slumped down on a spare folding chair and thought about the last time he'd seen Stephen, when he'd let himself into Rik's dressing room without knocking and just stood there looking at him.
"For fuck's sake, Steve, what is it this time?" Rik had asked, because this had happened before - Stephen would get all these ideas in his head, what seemed like thousands all at once, and he had to share them. No sense in laughing alone, and maybe Rik would get a call in the middle of the night about the logistics of a comedy set in India, but he never minded much.
Looking back now, Rik would like to think that he saw straightaway that something was wrong, but he didn't. Instead, he stood up and watched as Stephen sank down into his chair, brushing the flop of sweaty hair out of his eyes. He dug a crumpled newspaper out of his pocket and held it up.
"I don't read reviews," Rik said, but he took the paper from Stephen's hand.
"Well I fucking do," Stephen said. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and slid lower in the chair.
"It's not as bad as all that," Rik said. He meant it. "And besides, they're just critics, what do they know? Don't bother yourself with them."
"It's not just that," Stephen said, drumming his fingers against his thighs.
Ø
Hugh called him, says he's in fucking California now, of all places. Rik's first impulse was to cry, his second was to laugh, and his third was to just sit on the sofa for a while and stare into space. That's the one he decided to go with.
Later, after he'd drunk his way past any reservations he may have had, he booked a flight to San Francisco.
Ø
"I haven't been sober for this long in ages," Stephen said quietly. And then, "I've given up celibacy, too."
Rik wanted desperately to know whether it was with someone he knew, someone he picked up while he was miserable in Belgium, someone he picked up when he was getting by in sunny California.
"How's the therapy?" he asked instead.
"It's all about 'embracing the real you' and 'giving your inner child a great big hug'. It's bollocks."
"It is working, though? Right?"
"I made my inner child a cup of tea this morning. Tasted awful, some bland American crap. I still haven't found a market that imports anything decent. Even the bread here is - "
"Stephen," Rik said. He meant for his tone to be firm and authoritative, but of course his voice cracked and hit some absurdly high pitch and he coughed, tried again: "Stephen, please."
Stephen looks up, a lock of bleached blonde hair flopping over his sunburnt forehead, unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. Rik reached over and rested his hand on Stephen's wrist, rubbing the pink skin with his thumb. "Why don't you come home?"
"Because no one here knows who I am." Stephen half-smiled and pulled his arm away, inspecting his cuticles.
Ø
He motions to Stephen with his drink, ignoring the gin that sloshes over the glass onto his shirt cuff. "Come here," he mouths. Stephen comes, weaving surprisingly gracefully through the crowd.
They walk to the back porch arm-in-arm, since Rik's drunk enough to be affectionate and Stephen will sling his arm around anybody's shoulders these days. Once outside, they break up, Stephen fumbling for matches and Rik offering up his pack of cigarettes.
"Don't you ever stop?"
"Stop what?"
"You're not required to constantly perform for these people, you know."
"Of course I know. Don't be stupid, Rik, it's unbecoming."
He leans over and gently removes the cigarette from Stephen's mouth and takes a drag, then takes advantage of Stephen's surprise and pushes himself onto the balls of his feet and kisses him, tasting the stale smoke and whiskey and wrapping one arm around his neck, one around his waist.
Stephen pulls away first. "I'm not - I should get back, really," he says, his hands nervously darting in to straighten his tie.
"They're clever people, they'll find something to talk about without you guiding the conversation."
There is, of course, the possibility that he's just not interested, but Rik's not going to start worrying about that now. He could say something insightful, like there's an odd hesitancy about you, or something about how he'd been trying to reconcile the old Stephen with runaway Stephen and this new avuncular Stephen and he doesn't have to try when Stephen makes that private-joke smile, but speech-making is Stephen's gig, not his.
"Can I get you another drink?" Stephen asks hopefully.
"Shut up and sit down," Rik says as he eases himself into a chair.
Stephen sits, but he doesn't shut up. "I can't fuck you tonight, I'm entirely too tired."
"Take your time, old man," Rik says, and reaches over to fiddle with the hair at the nape of Stephen's neck. "You looked pretty hot with the blonde."
"Oh, Christ. I'm never doing that again."
"Let's hope," Rik says, and leaves his hand resting on Stephen's shoulder.