(no subject)
Media Fanfic (RPF)
Title Single-Serving Friends
Author glycerineclown
Rating/Warnings PG-13 for language, various biological realisms
Word Count 2545
Summary “I think pee should be the least of your worries from now on, Darren, at least when it comes to bodily fluids and air travel.” Darren/Chris, glee tour, airplanes, hotel rooms and continental breakfasts.
Notes This is not in the Shades of Grey 'verse - I wanted to write uncomplicated, easy intimacy for once. Thank you always to shia_labeouf for all the love and support and for being fantastic in general. I was on a flight from Seattle to Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago and this has been swirling in my head ever since. I was also really hungry when I wrote this; you’ll find out what I was craving most.
Disclaimer I don’t own Chris or Darren, sadly, but they might own me. I also don't own Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth, nor do I own Minute Maid, Amber Riley, George Clooney, Glee, or Stella Artois. Title is a Fight Club reference, so I don't have to keep calling this darren-and-chris-on-a-plane!fic.
“This is ridiculous, Dare, you have to drink on a plane sometime,” Chris says as the stewardess with the beverage cart passes us.
I just don't like doing it. For one thing, I don't like the little cups with a disproportionate amount of ice, but mostly, if I drink, then I'll have to get up and pee, and that means using the airplane bathroom, which is just never a good experience, and excuse me for rathering to not do that. This flight is only three and a half hours, I've seen much worse.
“I'm good, really,” I tell him.
He sighs, sipping from his ever-present Diet Coke. “Suit yourself.”
I tear open the baggie of pretzels that I had accepted from the stewardess, tipping some onto my tray table, and Chris sneaks one before putting his earbuds in and rolling his shoulders. I pull out the battered copy of Ken Follett's epic The Pillars of the Earth that I've been working my way through on these flights, and slump in my seat as I open it, finding the paragraph I was at and getting engrossed again.
-going to be feeling a little turbulence here folks, so if you are up and about the cabin would you please return to your seats and make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened, and we’ll get through this as smoothly-
The first wave of nausea hits me during turbulence; page 615 and leading asshole William Hamleigh is burning the Kingsbridge Fleece Fair to the ground, killing half the town's inhabitants and singeing the hair off the only woman who ever said no to him.
Snapping the book shut, I push it aside, leaning forward to try and breathe. Chris' fingers brush over my shoulder gently, and he hands me a sick bag from the pocket of the seat in front of him. I take it immediately, breathing into it, wishing the voice over the intercom would shut up about seat belts so I could make a mad dash for the back lavatory. Of course, with my luck there's probably a sad fuck in there now, unable to get out.
Some of Chris' drink spills out onto his tray table, and he quickly downs the remainder until the ice hits his face.
I don't think anyone ever gets over the sensation of vomiting. Sure, maybe it's worse when you're hungover, but you squeeze your eyes shut as your throat clenches up and you struggle to breathe and everything just feels wrong and wish you could click your heels and be anywhere else.
Doing it in front of other people is worse, though. At least hungover you can usually relive your crazy night (or not remember it) in relative privacy.
Chris' warm hand smooths down my back, and he reaches into his backpack for the bottle of water he must have bought after we'd gotten through security. "Swish," he says softly, handing me his cup, now with water in it. I take it, cringing as I obey and spit into the bag.
“Ugh, damn it,” I manage to say, before shoving my face into it again. I swish with more of the water afterward, and spit that out as well, clenching my eyes shut for a few seconds and turning my face away.
His fingers knead against the back of my neck. “All done?”
“I think so,” I croak, nodding weakly and folding the tabs of the bag closed. I look around for someone to take it from me, and of course, all turbulence is gone now, so a stewardess quickly trades me for a hot towel.
I wipe at my face miserably, sitting up straight.
“Poor baby,” Chris murmurs, pressing a kiss above my ear before he lets his hand drop into his own lap. He passes my book back then, but I shake my head.
“I don't think I can read for a while yet.” I turn to lean my temple on his shoulder, and he sighs, pressing a button on our armrest and shoving it up between our seatbacks. When I settle against him once more, my entire body's pivoted towards him, and he takes out an earbud, offering it to me. I accept it, and after I lay my head back down, he selects something soft on his iPod that I don't recognize.
His hand settles on my knee then, and I feel him turn his head to look out the window. I shove a sweatshirt between my back and the angle of the aisle seat's armrest, before running my fingers up and down his bare forearm and tucking them into his elbow as I snuggle against him.
Chris' available hand reaches up to switch off our seat's reading light, and he closes the window shade.
I thank him softly, humming, and he chuckles, rubbing my kneecap with his thumb. “I think pee should be the least of your worries from now on, Darren, at least when it comes to bodily fluids and air travel.” Chris laughs out of his nose and presses his face into my hair as I shake in mirth beside him. “I promised Amber we could watch something on the Pay-Per-View tonight. You want to join us later?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” I tell him, closing my eyes. Chris’ elbow slides over my thigh as I tuck my shoulder behind his.
“I'd kill for a beer right about now,” I say in the hotel elevator to no one in particular, though we're crammed in with Cory, Jenna, Kevin, Amber, Lea, a good third of the Warblers, and a trolley with all of our luggage. A few of the guys echo similar sentiments, but Amber just smirks at me.
“You can order one from room service later, college boy.”
Sweatpants are first order of business, though, and second is taking out my contacts. As we all separate to our rooms, Chris grips my arm and says softly, “We're in 918. Twenty minutes?”
I take a quick shower with that time, throw on a t-shirt and sweats, and head over to their room.
“Dayum, Darren, you look sexy in those glasses!” Amber says as she answers the door to find me barefoot in the hall. I grin at the carpeting and cover my eyes.
Chris smiles at me from his position cross-legged on the sheets, flipping channels on the TV.
“She's right, y'know,” he murmurs, elbowing me as I sink down beside him.
“Yeah, well, I'd be a lot more sexy if I had something to drink.” I reach behind him and grab the room service menu off the beside table. “Someone loves me, they've got Stella Artois in this town. You guys want anything?”
I tilt the menu toward Chris, and he takes it, flipping it over. “New. York. Cheesecake.” He falls back and snatches up the phone receiver himself, hitting the button for room service and passing the menu to Amber.
Tucking into his cheesecake ten minutes later, Chris moans rather loudly and leans against the headboard, paying no attention to the television. I choke on a laugh, and he looks at me curiously. “What?”
“Nothing.” I snicker again, though, and he raises his eyebrows, but I just nod. “I’ll tell you later.”
I feel his eyes on me as I lift my beer to my lips, and I offer him the bottle after I swallow. He takes it reluctantly and passes me his plate.
“Have some,” he says with a nod. “It’s too rich, I won't be able to finish this anyway.”
I take a bite and watch, amused, as Chris gauges the way he feels about the taste of the beer, first making a face, and then after letting it settle on his tongue, taking another sip.
I’d ordered two, so I let him finish that one.
The movie Amber decides on has an actor I’m not too familiar with, and it’s based on a book I never got around to reading; while I didn’t think it had turned out to be all that horrendous, Amber is frowning at the screen like it had insulted her.
The lede of her review would probably be something like, I should have chosen the George Clooney flick, he’s too much of a humanitarian to allow that kind of bastardization.
She’s asleep now, though, the TV’s off, and Chris' head is in my lap, his feet dangling off the edge of the bed. My closed hand rests on his chest, and he runs his fingers over the edge of mine it until they open and twine ours together.
“So... what’s this about my cheesecake?” he asks.
I snort softly. “Okay, in my sophomore year improv class, they told us that if you're in an intimate scene with another actor and you don't have personal experiences to draw from, you should think about the feeling of eating cheesecake.”
He rolls his eyes. “And now you always associate cheesecake with sex.”
“Pretty much.”
“That's funny,” he says softly, but without a smile.
“Why?”
“Because I always associated it with Golden Girls.”
I crack a grin. “In other words, decidedly unsexy.”
He smacks the back of my hand. “Be nice.” The sides of his mouth twitch up, though, and soon he’s laughing silently, eyes shining. He catches my hand between both of his, and I let him pull at my fingers as my other hand curls into his hair.
As Chris’ breathing evens out, he cocks his head to the side, looking up at me. One of his hands reaches up towards my face, and I shut my eyes as he slides my glasses off.
“You’re gonna go blind,” I warn him softly. “They’re not like your wimpy reading glasses.”
He tries them on anyway.
“Oh, god,” Chris laughs, squinting. “These are terrible.” He pushes them down his nose and peers up at me over the rims.
“You never listen,” I say, smoothing his hair off his forehead.
“Yes, I do,” Chris replies as he folds my glasses carefully and lays them on the bedspread.
He leans back into my hand then, eyes closing, and I slump further against the pillows, letting my body grow heavy. We stay like that for several minutes, until my bladder is so full of beer that I can’t stand it anymore.
“Sit up a bit, miscreant.” My fond tone counteracts the words, and he rolls off me with a smile.
When I return from the bathroom, Chris has burrowed under the covers. I sit beside him on the edge of the bed, and he turns onto his back to face me. “Ryan’s going to bitch if you fall asleep in my hotel room again.”
Leaning down on my elbow over him, I rest my palm on his chest, and he hums as our foreheads come together.
“I’ll see you bright n’ early, then.”
Chris nods minutely, his fingers sliding up my shoulder. “’Kay.”
My nose drags across his cheek and into his hairline before I press a kiss next to his eye. “We’re far too interdependent,” I whisper through a sigh.
He smiles, nuzzling. “You love it though.”
“Yeah.”
The breakfast buffet is surrounded by a swarm of twenty-somethings jostling for something to eat before we leave in fifteen minutes. I look down the line at Chris, who’s passing over the all-one-color scrambled eggs in favor of cantaloupe and pineapple chunks, as well as two pieces of whole wheat toast.
Riker pulls a fresh Belgian wonderful out of the waffle iron beside me, and my eyes follow it hungrily.
“Get your own,” he sneers good-naturedly as he butters it.
I chuckle at him and grab some sausage links, a poppyseed muffin and a couple of Clementine oranges, and go to find a place to sit.
Chris is at a table with Dianna and Cory now, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He’s like a hard start in the morning, like getting my old crappy ex-sedan going in Ann Arbor’s idea of December. He’ll be chipper as heck in a couple of hours, but for now, I know his sarcasm will be on full-force.
I smirk as I settle into a chair across from Titus and Luke. They’re discussing something silly that I missed last night, and when I look back up at Chris, he catches my eye, smiling softly. I nod back at him, and rip off the entire top of my muffin just to annoy him.
He scowls, just as I knew he would, something about eating the best part first instead of gradually, and then chuckles to himself.
Cory looks my way, and back at Chris, not sure why he should be amused. Chris waves him off, shaking his head, until Ryan Murphy pokes into their conversation, interjecting reminders.
“Darren.”
“Huh?” I look up, my cheek full of muffin.
Titus is talking to me. “I said, seventies or nineties?”
“Oh. Like, for music? Nineties all the way.”
“See?”
I realize I don’t have coffee at that point, and I get up again to remedy that, finding a to-go cup and pouring from the percolating coffee pot. As I slide a heat guard over my cup, Chris presses the button on the Minute Maid orange juice dispenser and lets his own cup fill.
“Not quite cheesecake, is it,” I remark, sidelong, and reach for a lid.
He leans his hip against the counter, appraising me. “You’d better not be flirting with me.”
I scoff dramatically. “Because we make a point to never do that.”
When Chris remains stony-faced, I jump at him with jazz hands, and he jerks away slightly, spilling some of his OJ on his fingers and the tile floor, and gapes at me. I have the decency to look sheepish as he frowns and points at me accusatorially, but only for a few seconds until the smile creeps back onto his face.
“I fucking hate you,” he says, shaking his head.
“Lies. You do not,” I retort with a smug grin.
Chris pretends to study the label on the soda fountain as he sucks the juice off his middle finger.
I laugh, hand him some napkins, and take the first sip of my coffee carefully-it’s still too hot-before squeezing his shoulder gently and returning to my breakfast.
I'm not sure how, but he'll get me back for that later.
Maybe I’m just kidding myself, that we can have this kind of relationship. That things can be this simple.
It should be, has to be more complicated than this.
But as we stand with the rest of the cast in a massive backstage, pre-performance huddle, and Ryan says a ridiculous prayer to the gods of fabulousness and delusion, Chris is pressed against my shoulder, gripping my hand and Lea’s. And all I can do is smile as he breathes deeply, trying to calm the nervous butterflies in his stomach, and let him straighten my tie for the fifth time.
“We’re gonna kill this thing,” I’ll assure him, and give him a kiss, because we’re in uniform, and his hand will trail over my neck as he releases me from a hug.
I just know we don’t have to be anything for me to love him. And I don’t have to be anything either.
And that’s all.
Title Single-Serving Friends
Author glycerineclown
Rating/Warnings PG-13 for language, various biological realisms
Word Count 2545
Summary “I think pee should be the least of your worries from now on, Darren, at least when it comes to bodily fluids and air travel.” Darren/Chris, glee tour, airplanes, hotel rooms and continental breakfasts.
Notes This is not in the Shades of Grey 'verse - I wanted to write uncomplicated, easy intimacy for once. Thank you always to shia_labeouf for all the love and support and for being fantastic in general. I was on a flight from Seattle to Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago and this has been swirling in my head ever since. I was also really hungry when I wrote this; you’ll find out what I was craving most.
Disclaimer I don’t own Chris or Darren, sadly, but they might own me. I also don't own Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth, nor do I own Minute Maid, Amber Riley, George Clooney, Glee, or Stella Artois. Title is a Fight Club reference, so I don't have to keep calling this darren-and-chris-on-a-plane!fic.
“This is ridiculous, Dare, you have to drink on a plane sometime,” Chris says as the stewardess with the beverage cart passes us.
I just don't like doing it. For one thing, I don't like the little cups with a disproportionate amount of ice, but mostly, if I drink, then I'll have to get up and pee, and that means using the airplane bathroom, which is just never a good experience, and excuse me for rathering to not do that. This flight is only three and a half hours, I've seen much worse.
“I'm good, really,” I tell him.
He sighs, sipping from his ever-present Diet Coke. “Suit yourself.”
I tear open the baggie of pretzels that I had accepted from the stewardess, tipping some onto my tray table, and Chris sneaks one before putting his earbuds in and rolling his shoulders. I pull out the battered copy of Ken Follett's epic The Pillars of the Earth that I've been working my way through on these flights, and slump in my seat as I open it, finding the paragraph I was at and getting engrossed again.
-going to be feeling a little turbulence here folks, so if you are up and about the cabin would you please return to your seats and make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened, and we’ll get through this as smoothly-
The first wave of nausea hits me during turbulence; page 615 and leading asshole William Hamleigh is burning the Kingsbridge Fleece Fair to the ground, killing half the town's inhabitants and singeing the hair off the only woman who ever said no to him.
Snapping the book shut, I push it aside, leaning forward to try and breathe. Chris' fingers brush over my shoulder gently, and he hands me a sick bag from the pocket of the seat in front of him. I take it immediately, breathing into it, wishing the voice over the intercom would shut up about seat belts so I could make a mad dash for the back lavatory. Of course, with my luck there's probably a sad fuck in there now, unable to get out.
Some of Chris' drink spills out onto his tray table, and he quickly downs the remainder until the ice hits his face.
I don't think anyone ever gets over the sensation of vomiting. Sure, maybe it's worse when you're hungover, but you squeeze your eyes shut as your throat clenches up and you struggle to breathe and everything just feels wrong and wish you could click your heels and be anywhere else.
Doing it in front of other people is worse, though. At least hungover you can usually relive your crazy night (or not remember it) in relative privacy.
Chris' warm hand smooths down my back, and he reaches into his backpack for the bottle of water he must have bought after we'd gotten through security. "Swish," he says softly, handing me his cup, now with water in it. I take it, cringing as I obey and spit into the bag.
“Ugh, damn it,” I manage to say, before shoving my face into it again. I swish with more of the water afterward, and spit that out as well, clenching my eyes shut for a few seconds and turning my face away.
His fingers knead against the back of my neck. “All done?”
“I think so,” I croak, nodding weakly and folding the tabs of the bag closed. I look around for someone to take it from me, and of course, all turbulence is gone now, so a stewardess quickly trades me for a hot towel.
I wipe at my face miserably, sitting up straight.
“Poor baby,” Chris murmurs, pressing a kiss above my ear before he lets his hand drop into his own lap. He passes my book back then, but I shake my head.
“I don't think I can read for a while yet.” I turn to lean my temple on his shoulder, and he sighs, pressing a button on our armrest and shoving it up between our seatbacks. When I settle against him once more, my entire body's pivoted towards him, and he takes out an earbud, offering it to me. I accept it, and after I lay my head back down, he selects something soft on his iPod that I don't recognize.
His hand settles on my knee then, and I feel him turn his head to look out the window. I shove a sweatshirt between my back and the angle of the aisle seat's armrest, before running my fingers up and down his bare forearm and tucking them into his elbow as I snuggle against him.
Chris' available hand reaches up to switch off our seat's reading light, and he closes the window shade.
I thank him softly, humming, and he chuckles, rubbing my kneecap with his thumb. “I think pee should be the least of your worries from now on, Darren, at least when it comes to bodily fluids and air travel.” Chris laughs out of his nose and presses his face into my hair as I shake in mirth beside him. “I promised Amber we could watch something on the Pay-Per-View tonight. You want to join us later?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” I tell him, closing my eyes. Chris’ elbow slides over my thigh as I tuck my shoulder behind his.
“I'd kill for a beer right about now,” I say in the hotel elevator to no one in particular, though we're crammed in with Cory, Jenna, Kevin, Amber, Lea, a good third of the Warblers, and a trolley with all of our luggage. A few of the guys echo similar sentiments, but Amber just smirks at me.
“You can order one from room service later, college boy.”
Sweatpants are first order of business, though, and second is taking out my contacts. As we all separate to our rooms, Chris grips my arm and says softly, “We're in 918. Twenty minutes?”
I take a quick shower with that time, throw on a t-shirt and sweats, and head over to their room.
“Dayum, Darren, you look sexy in those glasses!” Amber says as she answers the door to find me barefoot in the hall. I grin at the carpeting and cover my eyes.
Chris smiles at me from his position cross-legged on the sheets, flipping channels on the TV.
“She's right, y'know,” he murmurs, elbowing me as I sink down beside him.
“Yeah, well, I'd be a lot more sexy if I had something to drink.” I reach behind him and grab the room service menu off the beside table. “Someone loves me, they've got Stella Artois in this town. You guys want anything?”
I tilt the menu toward Chris, and he takes it, flipping it over. “New. York. Cheesecake.” He falls back and snatches up the phone receiver himself, hitting the button for room service and passing the menu to Amber.
Tucking into his cheesecake ten minutes later, Chris moans rather loudly and leans against the headboard, paying no attention to the television. I choke on a laugh, and he looks at me curiously. “What?”
“Nothing.” I snicker again, though, and he raises his eyebrows, but I just nod. “I’ll tell you later.”
I feel his eyes on me as I lift my beer to my lips, and I offer him the bottle after I swallow. He takes it reluctantly and passes me his plate.
“Have some,” he says with a nod. “It’s too rich, I won't be able to finish this anyway.”
I take a bite and watch, amused, as Chris gauges the way he feels about the taste of the beer, first making a face, and then after letting it settle on his tongue, taking another sip.
I’d ordered two, so I let him finish that one.
The movie Amber decides on has an actor I’m not too familiar with, and it’s based on a book I never got around to reading; while I didn’t think it had turned out to be all that horrendous, Amber is frowning at the screen like it had insulted her.
The lede of her review would probably be something like, I should have chosen the George Clooney flick, he’s too much of a humanitarian to allow that kind of bastardization.
She’s asleep now, though, the TV’s off, and Chris' head is in my lap, his feet dangling off the edge of the bed. My closed hand rests on his chest, and he runs his fingers over the edge of mine it until they open and twine ours together.
“So... what’s this about my cheesecake?” he asks.
I snort softly. “Okay, in my sophomore year improv class, they told us that if you're in an intimate scene with another actor and you don't have personal experiences to draw from, you should think about the feeling of eating cheesecake.”
He rolls his eyes. “And now you always associate cheesecake with sex.”
“Pretty much.”
“That's funny,” he says softly, but without a smile.
“Why?”
“Because I always associated it with Golden Girls.”
I crack a grin. “In other words, decidedly unsexy.”
He smacks the back of my hand. “Be nice.” The sides of his mouth twitch up, though, and soon he’s laughing silently, eyes shining. He catches my hand between both of his, and I let him pull at my fingers as my other hand curls into his hair.
As Chris’ breathing evens out, he cocks his head to the side, looking up at me. One of his hands reaches up towards my face, and I shut my eyes as he slides my glasses off.
“You’re gonna go blind,” I warn him softly. “They’re not like your wimpy reading glasses.”
He tries them on anyway.
“Oh, god,” Chris laughs, squinting. “These are terrible.” He pushes them down his nose and peers up at me over the rims.
“You never listen,” I say, smoothing his hair off his forehead.
“Yes, I do,” Chris replies as he folds my glasses carefully and lays them on the bedspread.
He leans back into my hand then, eyes closing, and I slump further against the pillows, letting my body grow heavy. We stay like that for several minutes, until my bladder is so full of beer that I can’t stand it anymore.
“Sit up a bit, miscreant.” My fond tone counteracts the words, and he rolls off me with a smile.
When I return from the bathroom, Chris has burrowed under the covers. I sit beside him on the edge of the bed, and he turns onto his back to face me. “Ryan’s going to bitch if you fall asleep in my hotel room again.”
Leaning down on my elbow over him, I rest my palm on his chest, and he hums as our foreheads come together.
“I’ll see you bright n’ early, then.”
Chris nods minutely, his fingers sliding up my shoulder. “’Kay.”
My nose drags across his cheek and into his hairline before I press a kiss next to his eye. “We’re far too interdependent,” I whisper through a sigh.
He smiles, nuzzling. “You love it though.”
“Yeah.”
The breakfast buffet is surrounded by a swarm of twenty-somethings jostling for something to eat before we leave in fifteen minutes. I look down the line at Chris, who’s passing over the all-one-color scrambled eggs in favor of cantaloupe and pineapple chunks, as well as two pieces of whole wheat toast.
Riker pulls a fresh Belgian wonderful out of the waffle iron beside me, and my eyes follow it hungrily.
“Get your own,” he sneers good-naturedly as he butters it.
I chuckle at him and grab some sausage links, a poppyseed muffin and a couple of Clementine oranges, and go to find a place to sit.
Chris is at a table with Dianna and Cory now, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He’s like a hard start in the morning, like getting my old crappy ex-sedan going in Ann Arbor’s idea of December. He’ll be chipper as heck in a couple of hours, but for now, I know his sarcasm will be on full-force.
I smirk as I settle into a chair across from Titus and Luke. They’re discussing something silly that I missed last night, and when I look back up at Chris, he catches my eye, smiling softly. I nod back at him, and rip off the entire top of my muffin just to annoy him.
He scowls, just as I knew he would, something about eating the best part first instead of gradually, and then chuckles to himself.
Cory looks my way, and back at Chris, not sure why he should be amused. Chris waves him off, shaking his head, until Ryan Murphy pokes into their conversation, interjecting reminders.
“Darren.”
“Huh?” I look up, my cheek full of muffin.
Titus is talking to me. “I said, seventies or nineties?”
“Oh. Like, for music? Nineties all the way.”
“See?”
I realize I don’t have coffee at that point, and I get up again to remedy that, finding a to-go cup and pouring from the percolating coffee pot. As I slide a heat guard over my cup, Chris presses the button on the Minute Maid orange juice dispenser and lets his own cup fill.
“Not quite cheesecake, is it,” I remark, sidelong, and reach for a lid.
He leans his hip against the counter, appraising me. “You’d better not be flirting with me.”
I scoff dramatically. “Because we make a point to never do that.”
When Chris remains stony-faced, I jump at him with jazz hands, and he jerks away slightly, spilling some of his OJ on his fingers and the tile floor, and gapes at me. I have the decency to look sheepish as he frowns and points at me accusatorially, but only for a few seconds until the smile creeps back onto his face.
“I fucking hate you,” he says, shaking his head.
“Lies. You do not,” I retort with a smug grin.
Chris pretends to study the label on the soda fountain as he sucks the juice off his middle finger.
I laugh, hand him some napkins, and take the first sip of my coffee carefully-it’s still too hot-before squeezing his shoulder gently and returning to my breakfast.
I'm not sure how, but he'll get me back for that later.
Maybe I’m just kidding myself, that we can have this kind of relationship. That things can be this simple.
It should be, has to be more complicated than this.
But as we stand with the rest of the cast in a massive backstage, pre-performance huddle, and Ryan says a ridiculous prayer to the gods of fabulousness and delusion, Chris is pressed against my shoulder, gripping my hand and Lea’s. And all I can do is smile as he breathes deeply, trying to calm the nervous butterflies in his stomach, and let him straighten my tie for the fifth time.
“We’re gonna kill this thing,” I’ll assure him, and give him a kiss, because we’re in uniform, and his hand will trail over my neck as he releases me from a hug.
I just know we don’t have to be anything for me to love him. And I don’t have to be anything either.
And that’s all.