FIC: Get Used to It, Entourage, V/E, NC-17, 1/6
Title: Get Used to It
Author: fourteencandles
Fandom: Entourage
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Length: 34,500 words.
Series: Part of the Here's Us Together series; this follows People Come Around.
Summary: Eric thought there'd be a grace period after coming out. He was wrong. Thanks to shoshannagold for the read-through!
Get Used To It
Eric thought there would be a grace period, a time after coming out where they still sort of stuck to the old habits. They spent the last year playing it safe, after all - and, some might argue, many years before that - and so he thought that at least for a while, after the Golden Globes, when they went out the old rules would still apply.
He was wrong.
Suddenly, Vince wants to touch. It’s like switch was flipped, like all that’s been keeping him from touching Eric has been the press. Now that they know, Vince puts his arm around Eric in the car; he kisses his temple when he makes a good point in Ari’s office; and he grabs his hand across the table at dinner, with the other guys sitting there staring at them like they’re nuts.
“What?” Vince says. “Like you guys haven’t seen us get it on.”
But somehow this feels way weirder than the nights when they’d get sleepy or drunk or both and let their guards down by the pool or on the couch at home. Vince sitting with him in the backseat of the Escalade suddenly makes Eric feel a little uncomfortable, because, well, there are people around. People with cameras, and Web sites. People willing to splash them across the fronts of the tabloids and the weeklies like his mother used to read. People who suddenly know more than only Vince’s name.
“Eric! Eric!” The paparazzi yell his name from the other side of their gate at home, trying to get him to turn or wave. It’s like they think if they pester him enough, he’ll get fed up and jump Vince in public. He ducks into the backseat instead, happy to let Turtle drive so that he can duck low and turn his back on the tinted windows.
“Wanna make out?” Vince asks, winking, but he keeps his back turned on the window, too. He’s been pretty casual about the escalation of attention, but he’s also following Shauna’s directives. They’ve been told not to talk to the press, they’ve been told to lay low for a while, and they’re taking the orders seriously. Eric’s pretty sure this is because Vince finds Shauna kind of scary - which Eric agrees with, since he’s the one who had to deal with her angry phone call after the Globes. (They will never again forget to tell her before they come out to millions of people at once). He’s glad Shauna laid down the law about PDA, up to and including making Eric stay home from the Oscars, because Eric’s not really ready to be parading around town on Vince’s arm. He’s also not really ready to tell Vince that. Vince is so happy about the whole thing that Eric can’t burst his bubble yet with the difficult realities that still face them.
Which, sure, there are difficulties. Vince didn’t win the Oscar, although he was heavily favored going in. No one can really blame that on the coming out speech, because most Academy votes were cast before that, but that hasn’t stopped the speculation. His next movie doesn’t release until July 4; they’re supposed to be working on the publicity campaign right now, but it’s suddenly gotten kind of touchy. Cameron doesn’t care about their relationship, but Cameron isn’t running the show: the studio is. And communication with the studio isn’t going so well, either, possibly because Eric hung up before a scheduled conference call when the receptionist said, “Wait, you’re the boyfriend?” when he gave his name. (He called back, but wasn’t really in the mood to compromise after that).
The good news is that most of the people they know have been pretty supportive and kind about the whole thing (they even got a nice card from Sloan after the Globes). And professionally, there are some bright spots, too: They were already signed to another movie before the announcement, because Ari was paranoid - maybe, Eric’s willing to admit, rightfully paranoid - about whether Vince would be able to find work after they came out. Vince is scheduled to start production on David Fincher’s new boxing movie in about six weeks, and Eric has to admit he’s looking forward to getting back into the swing of filming, when he’ll be worrying mostly about work and not, well, life.
So now they’re on the way to MGA. Ari’s been negotiating some other projects, and they’ve been summoned. Vince is absorbed in discussing last night’s Lakers game with Turtle and Drama, so Eric doesn’t even have to worry about wandering hands on the drive, and he can just relax and pretend it’s any other day. After spending most of the last two weeks at home, Eric doesn’t mind getting out of the house, even if it’s just to see Ari.
But Ari isn’t himself. There’s none of the usual yelling or groaning or mocking as they walk in. Or, well, he looks like he wants to yell and mock, but - he also seems kind of puny. He’s sweating, and he doesn’t stand up when they come in. “Are you OK?” Vince asks, taking a seat close to Eric on the couch.
“I’d be better if you would put at least sixteen more inches between you and my main midget there,” Ari says. He rubs his forehead, wipes his hand on his sleeve.
“Seriously, you look like death,” Eric says, shifting away from Vince.
“My kids have the flu,” Ari says, “and I just saw the returns on the new Shyamalan movie. Christ. It’s not even a surprise ending anymore to know it’s gonna flop. But I’m fine, I’ve had like eight different kinds of preventative shots, I could survive the plague. Let’s talk about you.”
Eric notices Ari doesn’t get up from his desk. “What is it you want to talk about, Ari? You get everything nailed down with Fincher?”
“Start date might get pushed back, but the training’s all worked out,” Ari says. Vince will have to start hitting the gym this summer to get into fighting shape, and there’s been a debate about where and when and by whom Vince should be trained. Now, Ari explains that they’ve agreed on a course through the guys at the Boxing Academy, which is what Vince and Eric have been advocating from the start. They already know some of the trainers there from prep for Queens Boulevard.
“All right, that sounds good,” Eric says. “I can get that scheduled.”
“Good, do that.” Ari pauses and clears his throat, takes a small sip from a bottle of water. Eric meets Vince’s eye, nods at what he can tell he’s thinking: guy’s totally sick. Eric would feel bad for Ari, except the nicest thing he’s heard from him in the last two weeks was a text message he got two days ago at 2 a.m.: I hope you’re getting good and fucked like the rest of us.
“So, what else, Ari? You just called us here for that?” Eric asks.
“You talk to Shauna yet?”
“Yeah,” Vince says, shortly. “We’re not doing it.”
Rolling Stone offered them the cover, if they’d let a reporter and a photographer follow them around for a week. Eric probably owes Shauna some flowers or something; his response to that suggestion was a little vulgar. But Jesus fucking Christ, he’s got enough of a photographer entourage already, he doesn’t need someone who thinks he’s got rights following him around.
“Yeah? You like being followed by the amateur squad, better?”
Eric crosses his arms. “His personal life - our personal life - that’s not a story, Ari.”
Ari shakes his head minutely. “Right. Not a story, like Hiroshima wasn’t a story. Sure.”
“You brought us in to say you think we should let some weirdo reporter -”
“No,” he says, “I figured that was a no go. But still, we need to do something. Control the story. We need to do something big.”
“Like a distraction?”
Ari laughs, a pathetic coughing laugh, but still a laugh. “There’s no way to distract from this,” he says, pointing between the two of them, “unless one of you knocks up Jessica Biel. No. We need to do something big and bold to show that, yeah, this is happening but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Hey -”
“For your career,” he says.
“So what are you proposing?” Eric asks, feeling uneasy.
Ari wants Vince to do a music video. “One day on set,” he says, talking mostly at Eric, “and it does two things: it reminds fourteen year old girls how hot your boyfriend is, and it reminds the media that, hey, this guy is a fucking star, he’s got the fucking look and the fucking performance and the fucking range. And it will give them something to talk about other than the announcement and the big motherfucking movie.”
“Why wouldn’t we want them talking about the movie?”
Ari frowns. “Listen. There’s gonna be a lot of expectation around Nightfeeders anyway. It needs to open big because it cost a lot. If it doesn’t, if it’s off by a dollar from the expectations - then anything we can put between you and the blame for that opening, that’s a plus for us.”
Vince sighs. “You really think people aren’t going to see that movie because I’m with E?”
“People do things for all kinds of stupid reasons. My brother-in-law won’t watch NBC because he thinks the Today show was too hard on Stephen Tyler in an interview in the 90s. The point is, if the movie falls short, we need to buy you some insurance. We need you to have something at the top of the charts between then and now so that we can say, hey, wasn’t our fault. And unless you can make a blockbuster movie in the next two weeks or so…”
“He’s got a fucking Golden Globe, Ari. I thought that meant TV’s out.”
“Adrian Brody got an Oscar and did a fucking Diet Coke commercial with it,” Ari says. “You wanna do that? Because right now, I’m not even sure we could get them on the phone.”
Eric scoffs, but Vince leans forward. “A video for who?”
Ari outlines the whole plan. David LeDell is directing a video for Kanye’s new album. “Not much storyline, lots of fighting and different colorscapes and looking mad at the world.”
“LeDell, huh?” Vince looks over. Eric gets a tumbling feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t want Vince to do this. He doesn’t want Vince to admit he might need to do this. “Can I meet with him?”
“He’s in Canada for the next week, but I can set up a call,” Ari says.
Vince nods. “Do it. All right.”
“Wait,” Eric says, and Vince glances over. “Can we at least see a script?”
Ari rolls his eyes, and Eric can tell that’s made him dizzy because then he covers his face. “Fine, fine, fine. Fax tomorrow. Get out of my office now.”
“Good to see you, too, Ari,” Vince says, and claps his shoulder on the way out. “Lloyd, you ought to send him home.”
“Would that I had the power,” Lloyd mutters. They hear Ari bellow Lloyd’s name, and Eric shakes his head.
“Good luck, man,” Eric says, and Lloyd says thanks before he darts in. Lloyd’s actually been extremely nice to both of them since the Globes, so nice Eric’s a little freaked out. But he doesn’t say anything, because Vince is delighted by it. Vince, who puts an arm around Eric’s shoulders on the way to the elevator, is delighted by everything.
“Let’s get a coffee,” Vince says in the elevator. “Guys? Coffee?”
“Sure, yeah,” Turtle says.
Drama straightens his hair. “Sounds good. Coffee Spot?”
Eric barely keeps himself from groaning. The Coffee Spot has huge windows out front, all the better for Drama to be seen through. All the better for them all to be seen through. But he doesn’t say anything, just nods when Vince turns toward him, because this is how it’s supposed to be. They’re just going on with their lives.
“Turtle, you got a joint on you?” Vince asks as they climb into the suburban.
“Please don’t get your picture taken smoking up,” Eric says. He doesn’t want Vince getting stoned; they still need to talk about this video.
“I got something even better,” Turtle says, and he passes back what looks like a plastic cigarette. Eric’s seen this before - it’s one of his “stealth pipes,” part of his growing collection of pot paraphernalia. “Just light the end, works like a charm.”
“Vin,” Eric says, “seriously.”
Vince grins. “It’s not for me.” He rubs Eric’s neck and passes the fake cigarette over. “Ari always gets to you.”
“I’m not getting stoned in the middle of the morning,” Eric says.
“Well, you’re so goddamned tense you’re making me nervous, so it’s either the weed or I blow you right now.”
“The weed,” Eric and Turtle say together, and Vince grins and reaches for the lighter.
Eric lets Vince light it and takes a long hit. The smoke burns a little, curls in his lungs, and Eric holds, holds, holds a little too long, exhales with a cough. Vince laughs, slides his hand under Eric’s chin, and kisses him.
“Knock that off,” Eric says, half-joking, and ducks his head to toke again. The pot is pretty mellow - what in New York they used to call plain old kind bud - and by the time they get to the Coffee Spot Eric’s feeling it a bit. Vince’s hand on his shoulder is no longer annoying; it’s warm and kind of welcome, and he smiles across at him before they get out. Talking about the video can wait. He’ll see the script, after all. Things will work out.
“Feel better?” Vince asks, one hand landing on his biceps as they walk in.
“Uh-huh,” Eric says, his hands in his pockets, because the paparazzi love to get shots of his ring. The place isn’t too full, and he didn’t notice any cameras outside. He smiles up at Vince. “Go get a table,” he says. “I’ll be over in a second.”
Vince gets a booth in the corner. The barista makes Vince’s drink first - soy latte with caramel - and Turtle takes his drink and Vince’s to the table while Eric figures out what he wants. A latte, he decides, and, because the pot left a funny taste in his mouth, he wants some kind of flavor in it. Vanilla, maybe. He also wants it decaf, because the guys have this ongoing video golf drinking game that Eric keeps getting drawn into playing, and he knows he’ll get pushed into doing a few Red Bull Max-vodka shots tonight. Last time he did that after a double espresso his heart nearly beat out of his chest. He thought he was dying; he had to go lay down. So he orders the drink - “Decaf medium vanilla latte” - and at the last minute he adds a muffin, because they’re out of the danishes he likes but he’s hungry and lunch is a couple of hours away.
“Oh, those are so good with the mocha we have on special,” the girl says, and Eric thinks, why not, and changes his order. Decaf medium mocha special. Fine. The girl says, “That’s totally my favorite,” in a gushy girly way that makes Eric laugh a little. Maybe she doesn’t read US Weekly or People; maybe she doesn’t know about him and Vince. Eric gives her a fifty-percent tip and says thanks, and then he moves over to let Drama order. The place is pretty full, and Vince got a booth near the back. Eric wonders if he’s being good or if it’s just coincidence, and decides he doesn’t care. It’s fine, he thinks, fine. Mellow. Fine.
Drama cashes out and joins him at the end of the counter, just as the barista, not the counter-girl but an older guy, bellows out, “Decaf raspberry kiss mochaccino with extra whip!” and slides a drink across the counter that looks like a volcano, a frozen reddish-brown concoction in a plastic cup with a huge mound of whipped cream on top, drizzled with chocolate and red raspberry sauce, a little stick of chocolate on the side. The straw is hot pink.
Drama snickers. “Jesus, what’d you get, the grande fag latte?” He says it just loud enough that a couple of people nearby turn and look.
Eric says, “Fuck you, Drama,” his buzz totally ruined, and takes the drink and the muffin to the table, trying to spread his hand out around the cup in case the cameras have their zooms focused. He avoids the pink straw altogether.
Vince grins at him. “That looks good,” he says, and steals some of the whipped cream off the top, and it shouldn’t work, but Eric feels better. Vince smiles at him and he feels better right away. The buzz is back.
Drama sits down and elbows Turtle, and they both start ogling some girl over on the other side of the café that he thinks is giving him the eye, and Eric lets his anger from earlier drop. Just Drama being Drama, he tells himself, watching Vince lick whipped cream off his lip. Fuck, totally hot. He realizes he’s staring, and laughs a little.
Vince ducks and whispers, “You’re adorable when you’re stoned,” and Eric laughs again and draws back. Vince’s hand is on his leg under the table, and Eric doesn’t push him away. Just living their lives. “You know what we ought to do? We ought to have an old-fashioned guys night tomorrow. You think?”
“Fuck yeah,” Turtle says.
“You really wanna go out?” Eric says. He’s not sure there’s enough weed in the world for him to brave a club right now.
Vince shakes his head. “I was thinking pizza, movies, pot, beer. Just like old times.”
“Only with way better herb,” Turtle says. “I’m in.”
Eric agrees, but Drama says, “How about, instead of pizza, I do some grilling.”
“Sounds great,” Vince says.
“One condition, though. You guys gotta help me prep for my audition. Lloyd had some very promising things to say today.”
Eric shares a grin with Turtle. He knows better than to look at Vince when he wants to make fun of Drama. “What’s it for, Drama?”
“A new FX series,” he says. “Called ‘The Courier.’”
“We’ll help, Johnny, of course,” Vince says, and Eric even chimes in, too. Anything to keep them all happy and home, right now; anything to keep them from needing to go out and face the cameras.
The next day, when the faxed script doesn’t show up, Eric calls Ari’s office but only gets Lloyd. “I’ll send it right now,” he says.
“He’s pretty sick?” Eric says.
“Deathly ill,” Lloyd gushes. “I’ve never really seen anyone turn that shade of green before. Of course he thinks he’s been poisoned by CAA or IGM or Terrence or something. I might be able to get you a call if you needed to -”
“That’s all right, Lloyd,” Eric says. “We’ll just wait. Tell him to call when he can.” He promises to read the script that afternoon, but moves it down on his priority list. Maybe Ari being sick will mean they never have to make a decision on the video; maybe it will just drop off the radar, and they can hang out at home, instead.
That night, Drama comes over with a pile of food and script copies for all of them, and then he burns the burgers because he’s too busy reading to pay attention to his cooking.
“It’d be such a good deal for him,” Vince says, sitting on the end of Eric’s lounge chair. Eric shifts his empty plate - he ate the hamburgers anyway, to be a good sport - to the ground, and Vince leans back against his chest. It shouldn’t work; Vince is a lot taller than Eric. But he slouches and somehow fits back against Eric, his neck at Eric’s shoulder, his back to Eric’s chest, his hands snagged around Eric’s bent knees. He tilts his head to the side a little and looks up at Eric.
“He’s gonna be a hit,” Eric agrees, and Vince smiles. He’s so truly, genuinely happy for Drama that Eric has to smile back. He kisses Vince and Vince touches his cheek.
“Yo, it’s guys’ night,” Turtle yells from the house, and Vince laughs and settles back against Eric, hands at his sides, resting on the outside of Eric’s thighs.
On guys’ nights, the rule is, as it always has been, that no one gets to bring a date. Eric doesn’t mind playing along, because he gets how it can be a little weird for the other guys. He and Vince were always sort of a team, but now they’re explicitly a team, and it can make things difficult when they get to talking and joking around. Turtle’s only recently stopped glancing guiltily over at Eric every time he makes a joke about Vince’s old sex life.
Turtle walks out onto the deck, Drama following, and they pause at the edge of the deck to light the joint.
“Do I really have to move?” Vince asks.
Drama exhales a thin stream of smoke. “Whatever, bro,” he says, and drops into another lounge chair.
Turtle takes a seat of his own, shaking his head as he passes the joint over. Eric takes a hit before passing it to Vince, and he turns his head to blow the smoke away from him. Vince passes the joint back, instead of on, so Eric hits again. “I knew guys’ night would get fucked up once you guys got all married and boring and shit,” Turtle says.
Vince laughs and Eric can feel it. He hands the joint back to Turtle and rests his head against Vince’s, slides his arms around Vince’s chest. He’s had a few beers and now a little pot; he’s not exactly drunk or stoned, but he’s on the way, and he’s feeling really very comfortable.
“Did you know we’re boring?” Vince says, turning a little.
“I didn’t even know we were married,” Eric murmurs against his neck.
Drama cuts himself off at midnight - the audition is the next day - but the other three finish all of the beer in the house and move on to a bong. By two, when they crawl into bed, Eric’s laughing at just about everything, even when Vince picks him up, arms around his waist, and carry-drags him over the threshold of their bedroom before dropping him on the bed. “I now pronounce us man and other man,” Vince says, flopping onto the bed next to Eric.
“Who kisses who?”
Vince yawns. “In a minute,” he says, and when Eric looks up, his eyes are closed. He laughs, again, and then settles back against Vince.
“I do,” he mutters, and falls asleep.
They all wake up too late to see Drama off for his interview, but Vince calls and catches him on his way home, and at Eric’s suggestion tells him to come over for dinner so they can hear all about it.
Drama says it all went fine, he even knew the casting agent and has worked with one of the producers before, “and she showed a real interest in me, as an actor, you know, not just some auditioning hack.” He raises his eyebrows. “She said it looked good, looked real promising.”
Eric’s already guessing that’s a non-starter, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him. “Good work, Drama,” he says. “Let’s break out some champagne, you think?” Vince beams at him and drops his hand onto Eric’s leg under the table. Eric smiles. Turns out it’s the same with girls and guys: being nice to the in-laws always gets you major points.
The next day, Eric reads the video script. He still hates the idea, and now he actually hates the video: it calls for Vince to play a weird, pseudo-Italian gangster, running around picking fights over some girl. Real college-filmmaker five-dollar-budget bullshit. Faux-Godfather crap. He thinks about calling Ari, but decides to reserve that argument until Vince has read it. Instead, he wanders out to the pool. Vince is napping, Turtle’s playing video games, Drama’s not around, and Eric is really getting bored with hanging around doing nothing. When his phone rings, he’s a little excited to see Ari’s number. “What’s up, I thought you were sick?”
“It’s Lloyd.”
“Hey, Lloyd. What’s going on? Ari need something?”
“I’m actually calling about Johnny Drama.”
“Yeah? Uh, he’s not here, but he should have his phone -”
“I needed to talk to you.” There’s a pause, and Eric gets the feeling something bad is coming. “You know he had that audition for the Courier pilot? Well, we heard back, and they want him.”
“Really?” Eric’s pretty surprised to hear it went well. Eric’s also surprised that Lloyd’s telling him, instead of Drama. “That’s great, Lloyd, but, uh, why are you telling me?”
“Because - they want him with a condition.”
“What’s the condition?”
“They want Vince to guest star next season.”
“Oh.” Eric rubs his forehead. That’s not a good proposition. “Just one show?”
“She’s talking about an arc,” Lloyd says. “Maybe as the leading lady’s old love interest. It sounds very exciting, it could be a really juicy role.”
“Uh-huh. What’s Ari say?”
“I can’t get him on the phone,” Lloyd admits. “I think they took his cell away when he got to the hospital.”
“Jesus Christ! He’s in the hospital?”
“It’s just for fluids,” Lloyd says. “And also, I think he may have gotten a little belligerent with Mrs. Ari yesterday, and this may be his punishment.”
Eric looks up at the house. He can’t really guess what Vince will say about this. Usually, he’s opposed to TV - they both see it as a step backward, particularly now that he’s got his Globe. But it’s his brother, and Vince is funny about Drama sometimes. And he was distressingly eager about the video. Eric sighs. “Can I get back to you about it, Lloyd?”
“Yes, certainly, only they want to know tomorrow morning.”
“Just lemme talk it over with Vince,” Eric says, “and I’ll get back to you.”
Lloyd says good-bye cheerfully, and Eric closes his phone and looks back at the house. He thinks about trying to track Ari down on his own, because he can predict what Ari’s response would be: no fucking way. Eric knows the arguments, too. Signing up for a television stint at any time would be risky, might somehow devalue Vince’s name. Now, just after coming out, when everything is so shaky and uncertain anyway, committing to a basic cable television series - a new series, at that - sounds like desperation. Particularly if they’re going ahead with the stupid video. No way Ari would be in favor of this show. No way Vince should do it.
Eric makes a note in his Palm Pilot to give Lloyd a call back in the morning. He’ll make it look like they thought it over, at least, before he breaks the news.
A week later, Vince is in boxing training and Ari’s back at work and leaving Eric messages that are as mean as ever. Eric dodges most of them, but doesn’t miss the fact that the video is probably, now, inevitable. Vince talked to LeDell and liked his vision for the project, and Kanye’s totally on board. Eric doesn’t have a good argument for Vince not doing it, since Ari’s so gung-ho, beyond a vague feeling that it’s going to be a bad thing. He’s worried that the bad feeling is just that he’s not ready to be on set with Vince while he’s making out with some model, and that’s certainly not reason enough to stop him from doing it. So he lets Ari schedule filming for the next weekend, and he tries not to think about it too much. Vince, who picks up on his tension, suggests a trip to Burke Williams.
“C’mon,” he says, getting dressed after a trip to the gym. “Nice little massage.”
Eric nods, his eyes on Vince’s muscled stomach until his shirt slides down. “I guess it’s better than getting stoned again.”
So they go to Burke Williams for an afternoon. Vince treats everybody to a deep-tissue massage, even Turtle, who always sort of whines about it but eventually likes it (Eric knows this because his pot intake usually decreases dramatically for the following day or two). Eric and Vince go first, in separate rooms, and afterwards, as always, Eric feels sore and tired, and he suggests they hit the new hot baths before they leave. Vince is game and tells the other guys as they’re heading in for their sessions.
“Just don’t let us catch you in the middle of anything,” Drama says, and Eric rolls his eyes.
Vince hands his robe to the attendant and sinks into the water, and Eric does the same, though with a little more self-consciousness. The whole room smells like eucalyptus and steam and the bath is like 90 degrees and feels fucking wonderful. Each bath is about 15 feet long, rectangular, big enough for six guys to sit around comfortably without touching, though they have this one to themselves. Vince is sitting on the bench at the far end, up to about his shoulders in the water, his arms stretched out across the back, his eyes closed. Eric takes a seat a few feet away, on the perpendicular bench, not touching Vince at all, though he can’t help looking at him. His hair is getting slick with the steam and probably sweat, and his face is a little red from the heat and his earlier facial, but he still looks fucking gorgeous. Eric tilts back and closes his own eyes, afraid the attendant will walk in and catch him staring.
The water is really relaxing, the heat of it somehow matching the heat from his sore muscles. He rubs his hands up and down his arms, slowly, not really rubbing but just enjoying the feel of his hands sliding through the water. If someone had told him ten years ago that he’d enjoy a spa day, Eric would’ve laughed in the guy’s face - no, he probably would’ve punched the guy, because words like “spa” and “massage parlor” back in their neighborhood were all code words for “pussy” and “fag.” He still feels a little weird about how much he likes this stuff, the massages and the bath treatments and the simple things like the soft robes and nice slipper-sandals they loan out, but Vince takes it all in stride so Eric tries to, too. Sometimes he thinks about how much it would’ve tickled his mother to try any of this stuff. He wishes he could’ve gotten her out here more often.
He hears Vince murmur something. “What’s that?” he asks, sitting up a little, opening his eyes.
“Hold still,” Vince says. He rolls his head to the side and looks at Eric, smirking. “You’re making waves.”
“Ruining your zen?” Eric asks, knowing Vince isn’t really serious.
“I’m so relaxed I’m practically unconscious,” Vince says. “Why don’t we do this every day?”
“Because we’d look like prunes,” Eric says. “Prunes with noodles instead of bones.”
“There’s a nice image.” Vince is still turned to look at him, and Eric matches his posture, resting his cheek on his own arm. The water is a little cloudy from the salt or whatever they add to it, and when Vince’s foot treads on Eric’s under the water, he doesn’t move, just lets it happen. In fact, he scoots a little closer. He knows Vince won’t try anything, not just because they could be seen but because the massage usually wipes them both out, physically. He also knows that Vince just likes to be touched, so he lets their feet tangle together, lets Vince rub the soft instep of his foot up and down over Eric’s ankle idly while he holds his gaze.
“The Clippers play tonight,” Vince says.
“Mm. You wanna go?”
“Not at all. You?”
“Nope.”
“What d’you wanna do?”
“I don’t care,” Eric says. “Hang out.”
“Yeah.”
Fuck, Vince is hot, Eric thinks, but it’s a lazy thought, no intention behind it right now. He likes quiet moments like this, too, and wonders what that says about him. Tries to believe it just says that he’s got a good thing going. He smiles at Vince, and Vince smiles back, like he knows exactly what Eric’s thinking.
“OK, E,” Drama says, “back away from my brother’s cock.”
Eric winces as Drama’s voice echoes off the walls. He turns and watches Drama strut in, and under the water, Vince’s foot goes still.
“Johnny, I thought you had an hour booked,” he says.
“Guy wouldn’t go hard enough,” he says. “Made me ticklish.” He unbelts his robe and turns. “Avert your eyes, E. I’m not getting in if you’re sporting wood.”
“Jesus Christ, Drama,” Eric starts, and Vince’s hand drops onto his shoulder.
“Don’t get all tense again,” he says, his voice low and soothing, and Eric nods. He settles his head back, closes his eyes, but the atmosphere has changed. His neck hurts, now, and his arms. The water level raises as Drama takes his seat, and where the waves lap Eric feels cold, suddenly, no longer blissfully warm and soothed.
By the time Turtle joins, he’s hunched forward, rubbing his wrist with one hand to keep it from cramping up. Vince still looks perfectly peaceful, and he’s a little spaced out as they walk to the locker room to change. Eric grabs a cool shower, towels off and walks back into the locker room in his shorts to get dressed. Turtle and Drama are lacing their shoes at the other end, and Vince is lying back on the bench, dressed again but his hair still damp, his eyes closed, his arms and legs hanging loose.
When Eric sits to put on his shoes, Vince tips his head back and looks at him upside down. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Vince smiles at him. “You wanna carry me out of here?” he asks, and Eric snorts.
“Sore as I am, I don’t think that’d go so well.”
“Aww, poor E’s all sore,” Drama says, his hands descending suddenly onto Eric’s shoulders. “But you know what I always say about that.”
“What’s that?” Eric asks, staring straight ahead, his shoulders already protesting.
“If they can walk the next day, you haven’t done it right.” He and Turtle crack up, and Vince rolls his eyes at Eric.
“From the massage, dickhead,” Eric says, getting to his feet.
Vince stands up, too, and his hands rest on Eric’s shoulders. Unlike Drama’s touch, this is welcome; Vince is gentle. It should take more than this to calm him down, but it works. It helps. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You’ll feel better after we eat.”
“Yeah, all right,” Eric says. Drama’s already up ahead talking to Turtle about their next trip, how he’s going to get a hot stone massage, and Eric makes himself take a deep breath. It’s just Drama being Drama, Drama joking around like always. He probably doesn’t even get that he’s being a dick.
Next.
Author: fourteencandles
Fandom: Entourage
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Length: 34,500 words.
Series: Part of the Here's Us Together series; this follows People Come Around.
Summary: Eric thought there'd be a grace period after coming out. He was wrong. Thanks to shoshannagold for the read-through!
Get Used To It
Eric thought there would be a grace period, a time after coming out where they still sort of stuck to the old habits. They spent the last year playing it safe, after all - and, some might argue, many years before that - and so he thought that at least for a while, after the Golden Globes, when they went out the old rules would still apply.
He was wrong.
Suddenly, Vince wants to touch. It’s like switch was flipped, like all that’s been keeping him from touching Eric has been the press. Now that they know, Vince puts his arm around Eric in the car; he kisses his temple when he makes a good point in Ari’s office; and he grabs his hand across the table at dinner, with the other guys sitting there staring at them like they’re nuts.
“What?” Vince says. “Like you guys haven’t seen us get it on.”
But somehow this feels way weirder than the nights when they’d get sleepy or drunk or both and let their guards down by the pool or on the couch at home. Vince sitting with him in the backseat of the Escalade suddenly makes Eric feel a little uncomfortable, because, well, there are people around. People with cameras, and Web sites. People willing to splash them across the fronts of the tabloids and the weeklies like his mother used to read. People who suddenly know more than only Vince’s name.
“Eric! Eric!” The paparazzi yell his name from the other side of their gate at home, trying to get him to turn or wave. It’s like they think if they pester him enough, he’ll get fed up and jump Vince in public. He ducks into the backseat instead, happy to let Turtle drive so that he can duck low and turn his back on the tinted windows.
“Wanna make out?” Vince asks, winking, but he keeps his back turned on the window, too. He’s been pretty casual about the escalation of attention, but he’s also following Shauna’s directives. They’ve been told not to talk to the press, they’ve been told to lay low for a while, and they’re taking the orders seriously. Eric’s pretty sure this is because Vince finds Shauna kind of scary - which Eric agrees with, since he’s the one who had to deal with her angry phone call after the Globes. (They will never again forget to tell her before they come out to millions of people at once). He’s glad Shauna laid down the law about PDA, up to and including making Eric stay home from the Oscars, because Eric’s not really ready to be parading around town on Vince’s arm. He’s also not really ready to tell Vince that. Vince is so happy about the whole thing that Eric can’t burst his bubble yet with the difficult realities that still face them.
Which, sure, there are difficulties. Vince didn’t win the Oscar, although he was heavily favored going in. No one can really blame that on the coming out speech, because most Academy votes were cast before that, but that hasn’t stopped the speculation. His next movie doesn’t release until July 4; they’re supposed to be working on the publicity campaign right now, but it’s suddenly gotten kind of touchy. Cameron doesn’t care about their relationship, but Cameron isn’t running the show: the studio is. And communication with the studio isn’t going so well, either, possibly because Eric hung up before a scheduled conference call when the receptionist said, “Wait, you’re the boyfriend?” when he gave his name. (He called back, but wasn’t really in the mood to compromise after that).
The good news is that most of the people they know have been pretty supportive and kind about the whole thing (they even got a nice card from Sloan after the Globes). And professionally, there are some bright spots, too: They were already signed to another movie before the announcement, because Ari was paranoid - maybe, Eric’s willing to admit, rightfully paranoid - about whether Vince would be able to find work after they came out. Vince is scheduled to start production on David Fincher’s new boxing movie in about six weeks, and Eric has to admit he’s looking forward to getting back into the swing of filming, when he’ll be worrying mostly about work and not, well, life.
So now they’re on the way to MGA. Ari’s been negotiating some other projects, and they’ve been summoned. Vince is absorbed in discussing last night’s Lakers game with Turtle and Drama, so Eric doesn’t even have to worry about wandering hands on the drive, and he can just relax and pretend it’s any other day. After spending most of the last two weeks at home, Eric doesn’t mind getting out of the house, even if it’s just to see Ari.
But Ari isn’t himself. There’s none of the usual yelling or groaning or mocking as they walk in. Or, well, he looks like he wants to yell and mock, but - he also seems kind of puny. He’s sweating, and he doesn’t stand up when they come in. “Are you OK?” Vince asks, taking a seat close to Eric on the couch.
“I’d be better if you would put at least sixteen more inches between you and my main midget there,” Ari says. He rubs his forehead, wipes his hand on his sleeve.
“Seriously, you look like death,” Eric says, shifting away from Vince.
“My kids have the flu,” Ari says, “and I just saw the returns on the new Shyamalan movie. Christ. It’s not even a surprise ending anymore to know it’s gonna flop. But I’m fine, I’ve had like eight different kinds of preventative shots, I could survive the plague. Let’s talk about you.”
Eric notices Ari doesn’t get up from his desk. “What is it you want to talk about, Ari? You get everything nailed down with Fincher?”
“Start date might get pushed back, but the training’s all worked out,” Ari says. Vince will have to start hitting the gym this summer to get into fighting shape, and there’s been a debate about where and when and by whom Vince should be trained. Now, Ari explains that they’ve agreed on a course through the guys at the Boxing Academy, which is what Vince and Eric have been advocating from the start. They already know some of the trainers there from prep for Queens Boulevard.
“All right, that sounds good,” Eric says. “I can get that scheduled.”
“Good, do that.” Ari pauses and clears his throat, takes a small sip from a bottle of water. Eric meets Vince’s eye, nods at what he can tell he’s thinking: guy’s totally sick. Eric would feel bad for Ari, except the nicest thing he’s heard from him in the last two weeks was a text message he got two days ago at 2 a.m.: I hope you’re getting good and fucked like the rest of us.
“So, what else, Ari? You just called us here for that?” Eric asks.
“You talk to Shauna yet?”
“Yeah,” Vince says, shortly. “We’re not doing it.”
Rolling Stone offered them the cover, if they’d let a reporter and a photographer follow them around for a week. Eric probably owes Shauna some flowers or something; his response to that suggestion was a little vulgar. But Jesus fucking Christ, he’s got enough of a photographer entourage already, he doesn’t need someone who thinks he’s got rights following him around.
“Yeah? You like being followed by the amateur squad, better?”
Eric crosses his arms. “His personal life - our personal life - that’s not a story, Ari.”
Ari shakes his head minutely. “Right. Not a story, like Hiroshima wasn’t a story. Sure.”
“You brought us in to say you think we should let some weirdo reporter -”
“No,” he says, “I figured that was a no go. But still, we need to do something. Control the story. We need to do something big.”
“Like a distraction?”
Ari laughs, a pathetic coughing laugh, but still a laugh. “There’s no way to distract from this,” he says, pointing between the two of them, “unless one of you knocks up Jessica Biel. No. We need to do something big and bold to show that, yeah, this is happening but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Hey -”
“For your career,” he says.
“So what are you proposing?” Eric asks, feeling uneasy.
Ari wants Vince to do a music video. “One day on set,” he says, talking mostly at Eric, “and it does two things: it reminds fourteen year old girls how hot your boyfriend is, and it reminds the media that, hey, this guy is a fucking star, he’s got the fucking look and the fucking performance and the fucking range. And it will give them something to talk about other than the announcement and the big motherfucking movie.”
“Why wouldn’t we want them talking about the movie?”
Ari frowns. “Listen. There’s gonna be a lot of expectation around Nightfeeders anyway. It needs to open big because it cost a lot. If it doesn’t, if it’s off by a dollar from the expectations - then anything we can put between you and the blame for that opening, that’s a plus for us.”
Vince sighs. “You really think people aren’t going to see that movie because I’m with E?”
“People do things for all kinds of stupid reasons. My brother-in-law won’t watch NBC because he thinks the Today show was too hard on Stephen Tyler in an interview in the 90s. The point is, if the movie falls short, we need to buy you some insurance. We need you to have something at the top of the charts between then and now so that we can say, hey, wasn’t our fault. And unless you can make a blockbuster movie in the next two weeks or so…”
“He’s got a fucking Golden Globe, Ari. I thought that meant TV’s out.”
“Adrian Brody got an Oscar and did a fucking Diet Coke commercial with it,” Ari says. “You wanna do that? Because right now, I’m not even sure we could get them on the phone.”
Eric scoffs, but Vince leans forward. “A video for who?”
Ari outlines the whole plan. David LeDell is directing a video for Kanye’s new album. “Not much storyline, lots of fighting and different colorscapes and looking mad at the world.”
“LeDell, huh?” Vince looks over. Eric gets a tumbling feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t want Vince to do this. He doesn’t want Vince to admit he might need to do this. “Can I meet with him?”
“He’s in Canada for the next week, but I can set up a call,” Ari says.
Vince nods. “Do it. All right.”
“Wait,” Eric says, and Vince glances over. “Can we at least see a script?”
Ari rolls his eyes, and Eric can tell that’s made him dizzy because then he covers his face. “Fine, fine, fine. Fax tomorrow. Get out of my office now.”
“Good to see you, too, Ari,” Vince says, and claps his shoulder on the way out. “Lloyd, you ought to send him home.”
“Would that I had the power,” Lloyd mutters. They hear Ari bellow Lloyd’s name, and Eric shakes his head.
“Good luck, man,” Eric says, and Lloyd says thanks before he darts in. Lloyd’s actually been extremely nice to both of them since the Globes, so nice Eric’s a little freaked out. But he doesn’t say anything, because Vince is delighted by it. Vince, who puts an arm around Eric’s shoulders on the way to the elevator, is delighted by everything.
“Let’s get a coffee,” Vince says in the elevator. “Guys? Coffee?”
“Sure, yeah,” Turtle says.
Drama straightens his hair. “Sounds good. Coffee Spot?”
Eric barely keeps himself from groaning. The Coffee Spot has huge windows out front, all the better for Drama to be seen through. All the better for them all to be seen through. But he doesn’t say anything, just nods when Vince turns toward him, because this is how it’s supposed to be. They’re just going on with their lives.
“Turtle, you got a joint on you?” Vince asks as they climb into the suburban.
“Please don’t get your picture taken smoking up,” Eric says. He doesn’t want Vince getting stoned; they still need to talk about this video.
“I got something even better,” Turtle says, and he passes back what looks like a plastic cigarette. Eric’s seen this before - it’s one of his “stealth pipes,” part of his growing collection of pot paraphernalia. “Just light the end, works like a charm.”
“Vin,” Eric says, “seriously.”
Vince grins. “It’s not for me.” He rubs Eric’s neck and passes the fake cigarette over. “Ari always gets to you.”
“I’m not getting stoned in the middle of the morning,” Eric says.
“Well, you’re so goddamned tense you’re making me nervous, so it’s either the weed or I blow you right now.”
“The weed,” Eric and Turtle say together, and Vince grins and reaches for the lighter.
Eric lets Vince light it and takes a long hit. The smoke burns a little, curls in his lungs, and Eric holds, holds, holds a little too long, exhales with a cough. Vince laughs, slides his hand under Eric’s chin, and kisses him.
“Knock that off,” Eric says, half-joking, and ducks his head to toke again. The pot is pretty mellow - what in New York they used to call plain old kind bud - and by the time they get to the Coffee Spot Eric’s feeling it a bit. Vince’s hand on his shoulder is no longer annoying; it’s warm and kind of welcome, and he smiles across at him before they get out. Talking about the video can wait. He’ll see the script, after all. Things will work out.
“Feel better?” Vince asks, one hand landing on his biceps as they walk in.
“Uh-huh,” Eric says, his hands in his pockets, because the paparazzi love to get shots of his ring. The place isn’t too full, and he didn’t notice any cameras outside. He smiles up at Vince. “Go get a table,” he says. “I’ll be over in a second.”
Vince gets a booth in the corner. The barista makes Vince’s drink first - soy latte with caramel - and Turtle takes his drink and Vince’s to the table while Eric figures out what he wants. A latte, he decides, and, because the pot left a funny taste in his mouth, he wants some kind of flavor in it. Vanilla, maybe. He also wants it decaf, because the guys have this ongoing video golf drinking game that Eric keeps getting drawn into playing, and he knows he’ll get pushed into doing a few Red Bull Max-vodka shots tonight. Last time he did that after a double espresso his heart nearly beat out of his chest. He thought he was dying; he had to go lay down. So he orders the drink - “Decaf medium vanilla latte” - and at the last minute he adds a muffin, because they’re out of the danishes he likes but he’s hungry and lunch is a couple of hours away.
“Oh, those are so good with the mocha we have on special,” the girl says, and Eric thinks, why not, and changes his order. Decaf medium mocha special. Fine. The girl says, “That’s totally my favorite,” in a gushy girly way that makes Eric laugh a little. Maybe she doesn’t read US Weekly or People; maybe she doesn’t know about him and Vince. Eric gives her a fifty-percent tip and says thanks, and then he moves over to let Drama order. The place is pretty full, and Vince got a booth near the back. Eric wonders if he’s being good or if it’s just coincidence, and decides he doesn’t care. It’s fine, he thinks, fine. Mellow. Fine.
Drama cashes out and joins him at the end of the counter, just as the barista, not the counter-girl but an older guy, bellows out, “Decaf raspberry kiss mochaccino with extra whip!” and slides a drink across the counter that looks like a volcano, a frozen reddish-brown concoction in a plastic cup with a huge mound of whipped cream on top, drizzled with chocolate and red raspberry sauce, a little stick of chocolate on the side. The straw is hot pink.
Drama snickers. “Jesus, what’d you get, the grande fag latte?” He says it just loud enough that a couple of people nearby turn and look.
Eric says, “Fuck you, Drama,” his buzz totally ruined, and takes the drink and the muffin to the table, trying to spread his hand out around the cup in case the cameras have their zooms focused. He avoids the pink straw altogether.
Vince grins at him. “That looks good,” he says, and steals some of the whipped cream off the top, and it shouldn’t work, but Eric feels better. Vince smiles at him and he feels better right away. The buzz is back.
Drama sits down and elbows Turtle, and they both start ogling some girl over on the other side of the café that he thinks is giving him the eye, and Eric lets his anger from earlier drop. Just Drama being Drama, he tells himself, watching Vince lick whipped cream off his lip. Fuck, totally hot. He realizes he’s staring, and laughs a little.
Vince ducks and whispers, “You’re adorable when you’re stoned,” and Eric laughs again and draws back. Vince’s hand is on his leg under the table, and Eric doesn’t push him away. Just living their lives. “You know what we ought to do? We ought to have an old-fashioned guys night tomorrow. You think?”
“Fuck yeah,” Turtle says.
“You really wanna go out?” Eric says. He’s not sure there’s enough weed in the world for him to brave a club right now.
Vince shakes his head. “I was thinking pizza, movies, pot, beer. Just like old times.”
“Only with way better herb,” Turtle says. “I’m in.”
Eric agrees, but Drama says, “How about, instead of pizza, I do some grilling.”
“Sounds great,” Vince says.
“One condition, though. You guys gotta help me prep for my audition. Lloyd had some very promising things to say today.”
Eric shares a grin with Turtle. He knows better than to look at Vince when he wants to make fun of Drama. “What’s it for, Drama?”
“A new FX series,” he says. “Called ‘The Courier.’”
“We’ll help, Johnny, of course,” Vince says, and Eric even chimes in, too. Anything to keep them all happy and home, right now; anything to keep them from needing to go out and face the cameras.
The next day, when the faxed script doesn’t show up, Eric calls Ari’s office but only gets Lloyd. “I’ll send it right now,” he says.
“He’s pretty sick?” Eric says.
“Deathly ill,” Lloyd gushes. “I’ve never really seen anyone turn that shade of green before. Of course he thinks he’s been poisoned by CAA or IGM or Terrence or something. I might be able to get you a call if you needed to -”
“That’s all right, Lloyd,” Eric says. “We’ll just wait. Tell him to call when he can.” He promises to read the script that afternoon, but moves it down on his priority list. Maybe Ari being sick will mean they never have to make a decision on the video; maybe it will just drop off the radar, and they can hang out at home, instead.
That night, Drama comes over with a pile of food and script copies for all of them, and then he burns the burgers because he’s too busy reading to pay attention to his cooking.
“It’d be such a good deal for him,” Vince says, sitting on the end of Eric’s lounge chair. Eric shifts his empty plate - he ate the hamburgers anyway, to be a good sport - to the ground, and Vince leans back against his chest. It shouldn’t work; Vince is a lot taller than Eric. But he slouches and somehow fits back against Eric, his neck at Eric’s shoulder, his back to Eric’s chest, his hands snagged around Eric’s bent knees. He tilts his head to the side a little and looks up at Eric.
“He’s gonna be a hit,” Eric agrees, and Vince smiles. He’s so truly, genuinely happy for Drama that Eric has to smile back. He kisses Vince and Vince touches his cheek.
“Yo, it’s guys’ night,” Turtle yells from the house, and Vince laughs and settles back against Eric, hands at his sides, resting on the outside of Eric’s thighs.
On guys’ nights, the rule is, as it always has been, that no one gets to bring a date. Eric doesn’t mind playing along, because he gets how it can be a little weird for the other guys. He and Vince were always sort of a team, but now they’re explicitly a team, and it can make things difficult when they get to talking and joking around. Turtle’s only recently stopped glancing guiltily over at Eric every time he makes a joke about Vince’s old sex life.
Turtle walks out onto the deck, Drama following, and they pause at the edge of the deck to light the joint.
“Do I really have to move?” Vince asks.
Drama exhales a thin stream of smoke. “Whatever, bro,” he says, and drops into another lounge chair.
Turtle takes a seat of his own, shaking his head as he passes the joint over. Eric takes a hit before passing it to Vince, and he turns his head to blow the smoke away from him. Vince passes the joint back, instead of on, so Eric hits again. “I knew guys’ night would get fucked up once you guys got all married and boring and shit,” Turtle says.
Vince laughs and Eric can feel it. He hands the joint back to Turtle and rests his head against Vince’s, slides his arms around Vince’s chest. He’s had a few beers and now a little pot; he’s not exactly drunk or stoned, but he’s on the way, and he’s feeling really very comfortable.
“Did you know we’re boring?” Vince says, turning a little.
“I didn’t even know we were married,” Eric murmurs against his neck.
Drama cuts himself off at midnight - the audition is the next day - but the other three finish all of the beer in the house and move on to a bong. By two, when they crawl into bed, Eric’s laughing at just about everything, even when Vince picks him up, arms around his waist, and carry-drags him over the threshold of their bedroom before dropping him on the bed. “I now pronounce us man and other man,” Vince says, flopping onto the bed next to Eric.
“Who kisses who?”
Vince yawns. “In a minute,” he says, and when Eric looks up, his eyes are closed. He laughs, again, and then settles back against Vince.
“I do,” he mutters, and falls asleep.
They all wake up too late to see Drama off for his interview, but Vince calls and catches him on his way home, and at Eric’s suggestion tells him to come over for dinner so they can hear all about it.
Drama says it all went fine, he even knew the casting agent and has worked with one of the producers before, “and she showed a real interest in me, as an actor, you know, not just some auditioning hack.” He raises his eyebrows. “She said it looked good, looked real promising.”
Eric’s already guessing that’s a non-starter, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him. “Good work, Drama,” he says. “Let’s break out some champagne, you think?” Vince beams at him and drops his hand onto Eric’s leg under the table. Eric smiles. Turns out it’s the same with girls and guys: being nice to the in-laws always gets you major points.
The next day, Eric reads the video script. He still hates the idea, and now he actually hates the video: it calls for Vince to play a weird, pseudo-Italian gangster, running around picking fights over some girl. Real college-filmmaker five-dollar-budget bullshit. Faux-Godfather crap. He thinks about calling Ari, but decides to reserve that argument until Vince has read it. Instead, he wanders out to the pool. Vince is napping, Turtle’s playing video games, Drama’s not around, and Eric is really getting bored with hanging around doing nothing. When his phone rings, he’s a little excited to see Ari’s number. “What’s up, I thought you were sick?”
“It’s Lloyd.”
“Hey, Lloyd. What’s going on? Ari need something?”
“I’m actually calling about Johnny Drama.”
“Yeah? Uh, he’s not here, but he should have his phone -”
“I needed to talk to you.” There’s a pause, and Eric gets the feeling something bad is coming. “You know he had that audition for the Courier pilot? Well, we heard back, and they want him.”
“Really?” Eric’s pretty surprised to hear it went well. Eric’s also surprised that Lloyd’s telling him, instead of Drama. “That’s great, Lloyd, but, uh, why are you telling me?”
“Because - they want him with a condition.”
“What’s the condition?”
“They want Vince to guest star next season.”
“Oh.” Eric rubs his forehead. That’s not a good proposition. “Just one show?”
“She’s talking about an arc,” Lloyd says. “Maybe as the leading lady’s old love interest. It sounds very exciting, it could be a really juicy role.”
“Uh-huh. What’s Ari say?”
“I can’t get him on the phone,” Lloyd admits. “I think they took his cell away when he got to the hospital.”
“Jesus Christ! He’s in the hospital?”
“It’s just for fluids,” Lloyd says. “And also, I think he may have gotten a little belligerent with Mrs. Ari yesterday, and this may be his punishment.”
Eric looks up at the house. He can’t really guess what Vince will say about this. Usually, he’s opposed to TV - they both see it as a step backward, particularly now that he’s got his Globe. But it’s his brother, and Vince is funny about Drama sometimes. And he was distressingly eager about the video. Eric sighs. “Can I get back to you about it, Lloyd?”
“Yes, certainly, only they want to know tomorrow morning.”
“Just lemme talk it over with Vince,” Eric says, “and I’ll get back to you.”
Lloyd says good-bye cheerfully, and Eric closes his phone and looks back at the house. He thinks about trying to track Ari down on his own, because he can predict what Ari’s response would be: no fucking way. Eric knows the arguments, too. Signing up for a television stint at any time would be risky, might somehow devalue Vince’s name. Now, just after coming out, when everything is so shaky and uncertain anyway, committing to a basic cable television series - a new series, at that - sounds like desperation. Particularly if they’re going ahead with the stupid video. No way Ari would be in favor of this show. No way Vince should do it.
Eric makes a note in his Palm Pilot to give Lloyd a call back in the morning. He’ll make it look like they thought it over, at least, before he breaks the news.
A week later, Vince is in boxing training and Ari’s back at work and leaving Eric messages that are as mean as ever. Eric dodges most of them, but doesn’t miss the fact that the video is probably, now, inevitable. Vince talked to LeDell and liked his vision for the project, and Kanye’s totally on board. Eric doesn’t have a good argument for Vince not doing it, since Ari’s so gung-ho, beyond a vague feeling that it’s going to be a bad thing. He’s worried that the bad feeling is just that he’s not ready to be on set with Vince while he’s making out with some model, and that’s certainly not reason enough to stop him from doing it. So he lets Ari schedule filming for the next weekend, and he tries not to think about it too much. Vince, who picks up on his tension, suggests a trip to Burke Williams.
“C’mon,” he says, getting dressed after a trip to the gym. “Nice little massage.”
Eric nods, his eyes on Vince’s muscled stomach until his shirt slides down. “I guess it’s better than getting stoned again.”
So they go to Burke Williams for an afternoon. Vince treats everybody to a deep-tissue massage, even Turtle, who always sort of whines about it but eventually likes it (Eric knows this because his pot intake usually decreases dramatically for the following day or two). Eric and Vince go first, in separate rooms, and afterwards, as always, Eric feels sore and tired, and he suggests they hit the new hot baths before they leave. Vince is game and tells the other guys as they’re heading in for their sessions.
“Just don’t let us catch you in the middle of anything,” Drama says, and Eric rolls his eyes.
Vince hands his robe to the attendant and sinks into the water, and Eric does the same, though with a little more self-consciousness. The whole room smells like eucalyptus and steam and the bath is like 90 degrees and feels fucking wonderful. Each bath is about 15 feet long, rectangular, big enough for six guys to sit around comfortably without touching, though they have this one to themselves. Vince is sitting on the bench at the far end, up to about his shoulders in the water, his arms stretched out across the back, his eyes closed. Eric takes a seat a few feet away, on the perpendicular bench, not touching Vince at all, though he can’t help looking at him. His hair is getting slick with the steam and probably sweat, and his face is a little red from the heat and his earlier facial, but he still looks fucking gorgeous. Eric tilts back and closes his own eyes, afraid the attendant will walk in and catch him staring.
The water is really relaxing, the heat of it somehow matching the heat from his sore muscles. He rubs his hands up and down his arms, slowly, not really rubbing but just enjoying the feel of his hands sliding through the water. If someone had told him ten years ago that he’d enjoy a spa day, Eric would’ve laughed in the guy’s face - no, he probably would’ve punched the guy, because words like “spa” and “massage parlor” back in their neighborhood were all code words for “pussy” and “fag.” He still feels a little weird about how much he likes this stuff, the massages and the bath treatments and the simple things like the soft robes and nice slipper-sandals they loan out, but Vince takes it all in stride so Eric tries to, too. Sometimes he thinks about how much it would’ve tickled his mother to try any of this stuff. He wishes he could’ve gotten her out here more often.
He hears Vince murmur something. “What’s that?” he asks, sitting up a little, opening his eyes.
“Hold still,” Vince says. He rolls his head to the side and looks at Eric, smirking. “You’re making waves.”
“Ruining your zen?” Eric asks, knowing Vince isn’t really serious.
“I’m so relaxed I’m practically unconscious,” Vince says. “Why don’t we do this every day?”
“Because we’d look like prunes,” Eric says. “Prunes with noodles instead of bones.”
“There’s a nice image.” Vince is still turned to look at him, and Eric matches his posture, resting his cheek on his own arm. The water is a little cloudy from the salt or whatever they add to it, and when Vince’s foot treads on Eric’s under the water, he doesn’t move, just lets it happen. In fact, he scoots a little closer. He knows Vince won’t try anything, not just because they could be seen but because the massage usually wipes them both out, physically. He also knows that Vince just likes to be touched, so he lets their feet tangle together, lets Vince rub the soft instep of his foot up and down over Eric’s ankle idly while he holds his gaze.
“The Clippers play tonight,” Vince says.
“Mm. You wanna go?”
“Not at all. You?”
“Nope.”
“What d’you wanna do?”
“I don’t care,” Eric says. “Hang out.”
“Yeah.”
Fuck, Vince is hot, Eric thinks, but it’s a lazy thought, no intention behind it right now. He likes quiet moments like this, too, and wonders what that says about him. Tries to believe it just says that he’s got a good thing going. He smiles at Vince, and Vince smiles back, like he knows exactly what Eric’s thinking.
“OK, E,” Drama says, “back away from my brother’s cock.”
Eric winces as Drama’s voice echoes off the walls. He turns and watches Drama strut in, and under the water, Vince’s foot goes still.
“Johnny, I thought you had an hour booked,” he says.
“Guy wouldn’t go hard enough,” he says. “Made me ticklish.” He unbelts his robe and turns. “Avert your eyes, E. I’m not getting in if you’re sporting wood.”
“Jesus Christ, Drama,” Eric starts, and Vince’s hand drops onto his shoulder.
“Don’t get all tense again,” he says, his voice low and soothing, and Eric nods. He settles his head back, closes his eyes, but the atmosphere has changed. His neck hurts, now, and his arms. The water level raises as Drama takes his seat, and where the waves lap Eric feels cold, suddenly, no longer blissfully warm and soothed.
By the time Turtle joins, he’s hunched forward, rubbing his wrist with one hand to keep it from cramping up. Vince still looks perfectly peaceful, and he’s a little spaced out as they walk to the locker room to change. Eric grabs a cool shower, towels off and walks back into the locker room in his shorts to get dressed. Turtle and Drama are lacing their shoes at the other end, and Vince is lying back on the bench, dressed again but his hair still damp, his eyes closed, his arms and legs hanging loose.
When Eric sits to put on his shoes, Vince tips his head back and looks at him upside down. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Vince smiles at him. “You wanna carry me out of here?” he asks, and Eric snorts.
“Sore as I am, I don’t think that’d go so well.”
“Aww, poor E’s all sore,” Drama says, his hands descending suddenly onto Eric’s shoulders. “But you know what I always say about that.”
“What’s that?” Eric asks, staring straight ahead, his shoulders already protesting.
“If they can walk the next day, you haven’t done it right.” He and Turtle crack up, and Vince rolls his eyes at Eric.
“From the massage, dickhead,” Eric says, getting to his feet.
Vince stands up, too, and his hands rest on Eric’s shoulders. Unlike Drama’s touch, this is welcome; Vince is gentle. It should take more than this to calm him down, but it works. It helps. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You’ll feel better after we eat.”
“Yeah, all right,” Eric says. Drama’s already up ahead talking to Turtle about their next trip, how he’s going to get a hot stone massage, and Eric makes himself take a deep breath. It’s just Drama being Drama, Drama joking around like always. He probably doesn’t even get that he’s being a dick.
Next.