(no subject)
Media Fanfiction (RPF)
Title Shades of Grey
Author glycerineclown
Rating PG-13
Summary Darren’s straight, but Chris is kind of magic. Inner conflict, one-sided yearning and learning. Darren's POV. Initially written for this prompt, but really veered off-course. If I get enough of a response from this, there will probably be a follow-up/companion piece from Chris’ point of view. The companion piece is here.
Word Count 1,769
Spoilers None
Disclaimer Don’t own Darren, Chris, Glee, or anything really. You’d know if I did.
“What kind of a kisser do you think Blaine would be?” Chris asks over folded hands, his feet crossed at the ankles and propped up on the arm of the pull-out couch he’s laying on in his trailer.
I look up from my iPhone, my back against the edge of the couch, and peer over at him. “It would probably depend on how he felt about the person… and how much of a gentleman he felt like being.”
There’s a pause, and then Chris sighs. “How would he kiss Kurt, then?”
Turning off my iPhone and setting it on the floor beside me, I let my elbow hang at an angle over my knee, and I rest my chin on my arm thoughtfully, looking up at Chris. “Well, it would be more premeditated than any man has the right to premeditate.”
“So the Cary Grant bravado is all an act?”
I smile and stand slowly. Chris shoves a pillow to the floor to make room for me.
There have been little snippets of my life in which I felt it might be easier to just say yes when people asked if I was gay. And I understand why they would assume so. But if I was-even though sexuality isn’t black and white like that-this boy would be at the top of my list.
Which makes me feel like an asshole, because he’s perfect and he doesn’t know it.
If you had taken any classes on gender and sexuality in college, you’d know that both of them are fluid. One does not define the other; they are independent.
Chris probably would have taken some if he’d managed to get any college classes in before Glee snatched him up, but I definitely did. When he’s surprised to find out I’m straight, we talk about it, and a myriad of other things from theatre directors to the Marauders era and Nip/Tuck. He’s fascinated with my childhood-envious is probably a better word-our cultural upbringings and peers were polar opposites even though we were raised in the same state.
I somehow complete a Dalton dynamic for him too: being surrounded by, and supported by open-minded people is normal to me. It’s expected.
I can see him hold himself back, I can sense his frustration paired with subtle joy when I touch him-and I want to say something, but I’ve got no clue how to make that anything but awkward. Oh, hey, I think you’re gorgeous and a fantastic person that I really admire and I know you adore me, but I’m sorry, I don’t want to bone you. I mean, come on.
“Lauren from Castle Rock, Maine wants to know, what’s your favorite song Chris has done on the show?”
I look from the interviewer to the boy next to me, his eyes bright with expectation.
I squint at him, thinking. “If duets count, I always thought the Get Happy medley he did with Lea was really lovely. Like, ridiculously so. I don’t know how anyone could listen to that with a straight face.”
Chris smiles and kicks his feet up like Judy Garland, knocking his shoulder against mine as he mouths ‘thank you.’
The interviewer addresses him next, and Chris straightens up, his fingers laced over his knee.
“What do you think Blaine’s intentions are toward Kurt?”
Chris sighs. “Well, yes, he’s a mentor, yes he’s protective, but no one’s that altruistic. Blaine’s not Gandhi, he’s a teenage boy.”
“More like the Thoroughbred Of Sin,” I say with a grin, and Chris snorts.
“Present your arm, nerd.”
Chris’ voice has dropped down so low for that line that I don’t even realize it’s him until I’m looking up from my script. He’s pointing his finger at me like a wand, and I tug up on the sleeve of Blaine’s Dalton jacket and offer him my wrist timidly, suppressing a grin. “Wh-wha-what’re you gonna do...”
From behind his back, Chris’ other hand appears, and he places a twice-folded piece of copy paper in mine and collapses onto the seat beside me.
“Wow, I’ve never seen an Indian burn hex that looks like this,” I tell him, wide-eyed.
“It’s a message from The Man,” Chris says with a grin. “I was just in his office. Read it.”
I roll my eyes, unfolding the note, knowing he’s now well versed in this its content, and turn it over to see what’s been scrawled in Ryan Murphy’s handwriting.
“...I get to bring my guitar to work next week. Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You, really?” I look back over at him.
Chris is beaming. “I think you can handle Frankie Valli.”
Amber, Dianna and Naya are piling into a cab, and Chris has his arm slung around my neck on the sidewalk.
He’s pretty drunk, singing I Just Can’t Wait To Be King at the top of his lungs, but I’ve only had a couple of beers, so I’m just laughing, providing harmony and Zazu when necessary as well as a supporting hand on his back.
“I love you so much, man,” I tell him, shaking my head. Chris giggles, kissing my hair, and pushes the girls’ cab door closed.
Dianna rolls down the window. “You guys gonna be okay?”
“Oh, we got this,” he says with enthusiasm, and I nod before they pull away with a smattering of see you Mondays. “The night is young, Darren!”
That’s how we find ourselves nearly kicked out of two open-late music stores in West Hollywood (or maybe I’m just paranoid, since surely they see far worse every day of the week) and doing a disjointed hand jive down the street before finally calling it a night.
My head winds up in Chris’ lap in the cab back to his apartment, and my eyes close automatically as his fingers stroke my hair.
“You should grow it out again,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I hold tightly to his arm as the cab takes a sharp turn.
His eyes are half-lidded, his fingertips trailing on the wall as he moves toward me in his pajamas.
When I say his name, Chris grunts vaguely, changing direction to approach me. I’m sitting at his breakfast table at two in the morning with my laptop, and I shut it as he shuffles closer and unceremoniously seats himself on my lap.
My arm wraps around his waist automatically, and he looks at me without really seeing me.
I pat his knee. “How you doin’, man?”
“Okay,” Chris mumbles against my temple. “Wouldn’t let me ride the pony.”
“Tell you what,” I say in his ear. “You can ride the ponies if you go back to bed for a couple more hours.”
“What? No, Darren, now,” he says, fingers pulling at the buttons on my shirt.
“It’s late,” I say softly, trying not to laugh. “Let’s get you back to bed, alright? Life’s hard for sleepwalkers.”
I help him stand, taking his hand and leading the way back to his room. His fingers thread through mine, and as I guide him down to the bed, he tugs me in with him.
“Keep the dragons away, Dare.”
Crawling across the bed, I pull the blanket over him, remembering what he’s told me about his sleepwalking episodes-don’t wake me up, it freaks me out, just take me back to bed-and curl up beside him.
“You’re the best,” he whispers, burying his face in the pillow.
I would be so in love with this kid. Chris’ got a kind of magic to him; every time I think he couldn’t get more ridiculous and awesome, he upstages himself.
He shows me some of the writing he’s done, and his whole face lights up when he talks about ideas he has for short films and musicals. I offer to help him write the music for it, since I know he can’t play an instrument to save his life, and he grins and says, of course you can.
It’s obvious, though, that Chris has always felt alone romantically, which makes me wish even more that I could be that man for him. He doesn’t have someone to be coupley with, someone to smile to himself thinking about while carrying out mundane tasks.
He should really have someone who loves him, that he can bring to awards dinners and threaten with sai swords when they don’t pick up their socks or do the dishes.
I can sing with him though, and seeing him smile that way from over the top of my upright piano is enough for now.
Sinking onto the edge of the couch beside Chris’ hip, I lean over him, propping my cheek on my fist and my elbow against the backrest. I regard him calmly, my free hand lifting to tuck his bangs out of his eyes.
I don’t have to ask or even hint to know that what he really wants is a demonstration, a dry run.
Chris’ fingers trail up my thigh as the side of his mouth curls up.
I duck my head, both of my hands moving to his collarbone as I lean toward him, wetting my lips. Chris sighs, humming, as our foreheads meet, and I move to the side slightly so our noses line up next to each other.
I shake my head minutely when he breathes my name.
“Blaine,” I say as firmly and softly as I can muster in this position.
Chris gives a small nod, his eyes closing, and one of my hands cups his jaw as I breathe in the smell of his skin.
“It’d be like this.”
Taking his upper lip into my mouth, I sigh against him, pressing him down into the cushions, and wait for him to react. It doesn’t take long; his hands have found the back of my neck and are holding us together, and his mouth is opening, his warm tongue flicking out against my lower lip as he captures it between his own.
His hum vibrates between us, and I return it, the backs of my fingers tracing up and down his neck as I peck his lips once, twice more and finally break the kiss. As he smiles against my mouth, Chris’ hands fall from my skin, and I sit up leisurely, one hand still on his chest. He thanks me softly, and I nod, standing and picking up my iPhone.
I bend to press my lips to his forehead before I leave. “I’d be the luckiest son of a bitch alive if that did it for me.”
Title Shades of Grey
Author glycerineclown
Rating PG-13
Summary Darren’s straight, but Chris is kind of magic. Inner conflict, one-sided yearning and learning. Darren's POV. Initially written for this prompt, but really veered off-course. If I get enough of a response from this, there will probably be a follow-up/companion piece from Chris’ point of view. The companion piece is here.
Word Count 1,769
Spoilers None
Disclaimer Don’t own Darren, Chris, Glee, or anything really. You’d know if I did.
“What kind of a kisser do you think Blaine would be?” Chris asks over folded hands, his feet crossed at the ankles and propped up on the arm of the pull-out couch he’s laying on in his trailer.
I look up from my iPhone, my back against the edge of the couch, and peer over at him. “It would probably depend on how he felt about the person… and how much of a gentleman he felt like being.”
There’s a pause, and then Chris sighs. “How would he kiss Kurt, then?”
Turning off my iPhone and setting it on the floor beside me, I let my elbow hang at an angle over my knee, and I rest my chin on my arm thoughtfully, looking up at Chris. “Well, it would be more premeditated than any man has the right to premeditate.”
“So the Cary Grant bravado is all an act?”
I smile and stand slowly. Chris shoves a pillow to the floor to make room for me.
There have been little snippets of my life in which I felt it might be easier to just say yes when people asked if I was gay. And I understand why they would assume so. But if I was-even though sexuality isn’t black and white like that-this boy would be at the top of my list.
Which makes me feel like an asshole, because he’s perfect and he doesn’t know it.
If you had taken any classes on gender and sexuality in college, you’d know that both of them are fluid. One does not define the other; they are independent.
Chris probably would have taken some if he’d managed to get any college classes in before Glee snatched him up, but I definitely did. When he’s surprised to find out I’m straight, we talk about it, and a myriad of other things from theatre directors to the Marauders era and Nip/Tuck. He’s fascinated with my childhood-envious is probably a better word-our cultural upbringings and peers were polar opposites even though we were raised in the same state.
I somehow complete a Dalton dynamic for him too: being surrounded by, and supported by open-minded people is normal to me. It’s expected.
I can see him hold himself back, I can sense his frustration paired with subtle joy when I touch him-and I want to say something, but I’ve got no clue how to make that anything but awkward. Oh, hey, I think you’re gorgeous and a fantastic person that I really admire and I know you adore me, but I’m sorry, I don’t want to bone you. I mean, come on.
“Lauren from Castle Rock, Maine wants to know, what’s your favorite song Chris has done on the show?”
I look from the interviewer to the boy next to me, his eyes bright with expectation.
I squint at him, thinking. “If duets count, I always thought the Get Happy medley he did with Lea was really lovely. Like, ridiculously so. I don’t know how anyone could listen to that with a straight face.”
Chris smiles and kicks his feet up like Judy Garland, knocking his shoulder against mine as he mouths ‘thank you.’
The interviewer addresses him next, and Chris straightens up, his fingers laced over his knee.
“What do you think Blaine’s intentions are toward Kurt?”
Chris sighs. “Well, yes, he’s a mentor, yes he’s protective, but no one’s that altruistic. Blaine’s not Gandhi, he’s a teenage boy.”
“More like the Thoroughbred Of Sin,” I say with a grin, and Chris snorts.
“Present your arm, nerd.”
Chris’ voice has dropped down so low for that line that I don’t even realize it’s him until I’m looking up from my script. He’s pointing his finger at me like a wand, and I tug up on the sleeve of Blaine’s Dalton jacket and offer him my wrist timidly, suppressing a grin. “Wh-wha-what’re you gonna do...”
From behind his back, Chris’ other hand appears, and he places a twice-folded piece of copy paper in mine and collapses onto the seat beside me.
“Wow, I’ve never seen an Indian burn hex that looks like this,” I tell him, wide-eyed.
“It’s a message from The Man,” Chris says with a grin. “I was just in his office. Read it.”
I roll my eyes, unfolding the note, knowing he’s now well versed in this its content, and turn it over to see what’s been scrawled in Ryan Murphy’s handwriting.
“...I get to bring my guitar to work next week. Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You, really?” I look back over at him.
Chris is beaming. “I think you can handle Frankie Valli.”
Amber, Dianna and Naya are piling into a cab, and Chris has his arm slung around my neck on the sidewalk.
He’s pretty drunk, singing I Just Can’t Wait To Be King at the top of his lungs, but I’ve only had a couple of beers, so I’m just laughing, providing harmony and Zazu when necessary as well as a supporting hand on his back.
“I love you so much, man,” I tell him, shaking my head. Chris giggles, kissing my hair, and pushes the girls’ cab door closed.
Dianna rolls down the window. “You guys gonna be okay?”
“Oh, we got this,” he says with enthusiasm, and I nod before they pull away with a smattering of see you Mondays. “The night is young, Darren!”
That’s how we find ourselves nearly kicked out of two open-late music stores in West Hollywood (or maybe I’m just paranoid, since surely they see far worse every day of the week) and doing a disjointed hand jive down the street before finally calling it a night.
My head winds up in Chris’ lap in the cab back to his apartment, and my eyes close automatically as his fingers stroke my hair.
“You should grow it out again,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I hold tightly to his arm as the cab takes a sharp turn.
His eyes are half-lidded, his fingertips trailing on the wall as he moves toward me in his pajamas.
When I say his name, Chris grunts vaguely, changing direction to approach me. I’m sitting at his breakfast table at two in the morning with my laptop, and I shut it as he shuffles closer and unceremoniously seats himself on my lap.
My arm wraps around his waist automatically, and he looks at me without really seeing me.
I pat his knee. “How you doin’, man?”
“Okay,” Chris mumbles against my temple. “Wouldn’t let me ride the pony.”
“Tell you what,” I say in his ear. “You can ride the ponies if you go back to bed for a couple more hours.”
“What? No, Darren, now,” he says, fingers pulling at the buttons on my shirt.
“It’s late,” I say softly, trying not to laugh. “Let’s get you back to bed, alright? Life’s hard for sleepwalkers.”
I help him stand, taking his hand and leading the way back to his room. His fingers thread through mine, and as I guide him down to the bed, he tugs me in with him.
“Keep the dragons away, Dare.”
Crawling across the bed, I pull the blanket over him, remembering what he’s told me about his sleepwalking episodes-don’t wake me up, it freaks me out, just take me back to bed-and curl up beside him.
“You’re the best,” he whispers, burying his face in the pillow.
I would be so in love with this kid. Chris’ got a kind of magic to him; every time I think he couldn’t get more ridiculous and awesome, he upstages himself.
He shows me some of the writing he’s done, and his whole face lights up when he talks about ideas he has for short films and musicals. I offer to help him write the music for it, since I know he can’t play an instrument to save his life, and he grins and says, of course you can.
It’s obvious, though, that Chris has always felt alone romantically, which makes me wish even more that I could be that man for him. He doesn’t have someone to be coupley with, someone to smile to himself thinking about while carrying out mundane tasks.
He should really have someone who loves him, that he can bring to awards dinners and threaten with sai swords when they don’t pick up their socks or do the dishes.
I can sing with him though, and seeing him smile that way from over the top of my upright piano is enough for now.
Sinking onto the edge of the couch beside Chris’ hip, I lean over him, propping my cheek on my fist and my elbow against the backrest. I regard him calmly, my free hand lifting to tuck his bangs out of his eyes.
I don’t have to ask or even hint to know that what he really wants is a demonstration, a dry run.
Chris’ fingers trail up my thigh as the side of his mouth curls up.
I duck my head, both of my hands moving to his collarbone as I lean toward him, wetting my lips. Chris sighs, humming, as our foreheads meet, and I move to the side slightly so our noses line up next to each other.
I shake my head minutely when he breathes my name.
“Blaine,” I say as firmly and softly as I can muster in this position.
Chris gives a small nod, his eyes closing, and one of my hands cups his jaw as I breathe in the smell of his skin.
“It’d be like this.”
Taking his upper lip into my mouth, I sigh against him, pressing him down into the cushions, and wait for him to react. It doesn’t take long; his hands have found the back of my neck and are holding us together, and his mouth is opening, his warm tongue flicking out against my lower lip as he captures it between his own.
His hum vibrates between us, and I return it, the backs of my fingers tracing up and down his neck as I peck his lips once, twice more and finally break the kiss. As he smiles against my mouth, Chris’ hands fall from my skin, and I sit up leisurely, one hand still on his chest. He thanks me softly, and I nod, standing and picking up my iPhone.
I bend to press my lips to his forehead before I leave. “I’d be the luckiest son of a bitch alive if that did it for me.”