fic: exactly where we belong (chord/darren, r) (4/4)
exactly where we belong.
by novelized. ~32,000 words.
fandom: Glee RPF.
pairing: Chord Overstreet/Darren Criss.
summary: Chord Overstreet doesn't want to like Darren, but the sad truth of the fact is that he can't help it. Darren Criss, that asshole, is impossible to dislike.
(alternatively: Something Went Down in the Tent at Coachella.)
With less than two weeks of the tour left, his manager gives him a call.
He’s sharing a room with Cory tonight, and they’re flipping through the channels on TV when his phone rings. He pushes himself up off the bed and goes out into the hall to answer it. His manager never calls except to talk business, so Chord thinks maybe there’s an opportunity lining up, a singing gig or some guest starring role that’ll happen before filming starts for season three.
It’s not that, though. It’s nothing like that.
“Chord,” his manager tells him, and he sounds oddly serious, “I want to tell you something, and I wanted to be the first one to tell you.”
And Chord’s already feeling weird enough lately that this doesn’t even register. He digs his toes into the carpet and says, “Okay.”
Even still there’s a long pause on the phone. Like he’s afraid to come out with it. Like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say.
Finally, finally, he says, “You’re not being picked up as a series regular.”
Chord’s stomach drops. That was the last thing he’d been expecting, but it’s not-it’s not the end of the world, right, there were still a few of them that were on recurring contracts, it’s not like he’s being fired. It kind of sucks, but he’ll get over it. He has to. “Okay,” he says evenly. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“That’s not all.”
This time Chord’s stomach really plunges, because his manager doesn’t do the thing where he plays bad news good news. It’s going to be bad news bad news. He can tell. “Yeah?”
“Darren Criss and Harry Shum Jr. were picked up as series regulars.”
And that’s the worst fucking thing he’s heard all day.
It’s-he doesn’t know how to walk the line between being happy for them (because he is happy for them, it’s a huge thing, it’s big, it’s great) and feeling like he’d just been kicked in the balls and told he wasn’t good enough. That’s what this boils down to, isn’t it? Chord’s not good enough to be a regular. He’s not good enough to be one of them. He’s been on the show longer than Darren has. He’s had more lines than Harry has. And still. The truth is staring him right in the eye.
He fucking hates the truth.
“Wow,” Chord says, and there’s something almost like a burning in the back of his eyes but he blinks it away, because no. He’s not that dude. “That’s… okay. Yeah, okay.”
“We have options,” his manager says. “I’ll let you sleep on this, but there are other things we can explore.”
“Sure,” says Chord, not really thinking, because his voice doesn’t even sound like a real voice anymore, maybe just a faint buzzing in the background. “Right. I’ll, uh. We’ll talk later. I’m gonna-like you said, I’m gonna sleep on it.”
“Okay. Don’t get too discouraged.”
“Right.” Except Chord’s sort of laughing about that as he hangs up the phone. Don’t get too discouraged? As if anything good could come from this? He walks back into the room, feels like a zombie. Like his vision has gone all weirdly Technicolor and fuzzy.
“You okay, man?” Cory asks, squinting at him.
Chord can’t remember what he was doing before the call. He climbs up into bed and lays flat on his back, doesn’t even bother with pillows, stares up at the ceiling. He can still feel Cory’s concerned gaze on the side of his face. Cory’s been a series regular since day one. There was never any question about his contract. He wouldn’t understand. “I’m going to bed,” Chord mumbles, and it sounds like he’s speaking through a vacuum. It’s stupid, because he knows he’ll never be able to turn his brain off enough to actually sleep. He thinks about texting Darren, and then-that thought almost makes him sit up straight in bed. Did Darren know? All this time, with everything that was happening-did Darren already know? He must’ve. How could he not?
Bile climbs up Chord’s throat. He forces it back down.
Just as he’d predicted, he doesn’t sleep a single second all night long.
Cory’s gone before he is the next morning. Every action feels sluggish. Even buttoning his pants takes five minutes longer than normal. There’s a knock at the door. Chord finishes pulling his shirt on over his head before he even thinks about answering it. It’s Darren. Of course it is.
“Morning,” he says cheerfully, grinning and leaning in the second the door behind him has closed. Good morning kisses aren’t unusual, not lately. Chord turns his cheek.
Darren blinks at him when his lips connect with the side of Chord’s jaw, but he recovers quickly. “You okay?” he asks, running his hand along Chord’s side. Chord pulls away. There’s that need-to-throw-up feeling again. He really, really wants to be left alone.
“Fine,” he says flatly, turning around and shoving last night’s clothes into his suitcase. Darren hovers in the doorway, unsure.
“Chord…” he says, and it’s like something inside Chord snaps. He drops his shirt, turns to face Darren. Can’t help his expression, the anger unrolling in his chest.
“How long have you known?” he demands.
Darren looks bewildered, and that just pisses him off even more. He hates people who play coy. He hates everything about this. “Known what?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t fucking do that. How long have you known?”
“Chord, I don’t-”
And Chord’s just… just exploding over the top with feelings. He feels mentally unstable and stupid for buying into this for so long, for thinking he’d felt some sort of attachment, some sense of belonging. He knows, deep down, that absolutely none of this is Darren’s fault, this has absolutely nothing to do with him, and yet it hurts so fucking bad and he has no one else to blame, no one else to take his anger out on. He wants to punch something. Put his fist through the wall. “How long have you known that you got promoted and I didn’t?” he asks, chest sort of heaving, the back of his neck boiling hot.
The color drains from Darren’s face, and he can’t even pretend to deny it. “Chord,” he says quietly, “I’m really-”
But Chord doesn’t want to hear that, not right now. “How long?”
And Darren goes quiet and there’s nothing in the room but radio silence and Chord’s heavy breathing and Darren looks at him, soft and sad, and says in a voice that’s too hushed to be his own, “A week.”
A week. A fucking week.
“That’s great,” Chord says, and he’s laughing now, because what other choice does he have? “That’s awesome, really, man. Thanks for letting me know. What, were you having a big fucking laugh about it behind my back? You and Harry?”
“No!” Darren says quickly, and his eyes are widening, like he’s-like he’s hurt by the accusation, and Chord’s so mad he’s just thinking fuck it, seriously, fuck Darren for lying to him and fuck himself for believing it.
“You didn’t say anything. You could’ve said something.”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you-”
“Oh, fuck you,” Chord says loudly, doesn’t even bother to keep his voice down, doesn’t know how. Let the neighbors next door hear. He doesn’t give a shit. “All that bullshit about-about you and me, you knew and you weren’t going to tell me, that’s freaking cowardly, man. So-so what? You could get into my pants for a week longer?”
“Chord, seriously, no, that’s not it at all-”
“Whatever. Just… get out.”
Darren looks more hurt than Chord has ever seen him, but the thing is, he doesn’t even care. He has no right to look like that. He’s got the whole fucking world handed to him on a silver platter. Since day one, his face has been everywhere. He could have anything he ever wanted. He was promoted to series regular after half a season, just because he’s-because he’s what Chord couldn’t be. What Chord wasn’t good enough for.
“Chord,” he says again, and his eyes are almost pleading. “Just-let’s talk, okay?”
“No,” Chord says immediately. He’s fine with being petty. He thinks it’s way overdue. “Get out. I’m serious. This-this thing, I’m done. It’s done.”
“It’s not even that big of a deal, they still want you back-”
“Right,” Chord says, and his hands drop down to his sides limply. He shakes his head, laughs again. Of course it’s not that big of a deal. Not when it’s happening to him. “Okay, Darren. Thanks for the perspective. I’m serious now. Get out.”
And Darren doesn’t really have a choice, even though he looks like it’s the last thing he wants to do. He backs up towards the door, but slowly, like he’s expecting Chord to stop him.
He doesn’t.
“They still want you,” Darren says quietly, hand on the doorknob, and then, even more quietly, “I still want you.”
“I’m done,” Chord says again. His ears are ringing, his skin prickling. “Seriously. I’m done.”
Darren casts him one more lingering look, and his eyes are shining, and his eyebrows are drawn in, but Chord doesn’t say anything so he opens the door and he leaves. It takes a good three minutes for Chord to remember how to breathe normally. He sits down on the corner of the mattress and shoves his knuckles into his eyes and tries his best to count backwards.
This time, it doesn’t help.
Chord spends the next two days avoiding everyone. He stays to himself every minute they’re not on stage, and even then he’s burnt out, lackluster, doesn’t get into it the way he normally does. They all keep shooting him these concerned looks and it drives him crazy. How’s he supposed to dance with them when he’s not one of them? Why is he finishing the tour at all?
He spends a lot of time on the phone with his manager. They talk about everything, every possible option. “You don’t have to come back, you know,” he tells Chord, and Chord’s heart sort of clenches at the idea, but. But still. “You don’t have to come back at all.”
Another two days and he’s made his decision.
It’s the hardest fucking thing he’s ever had to do.
The night before the last show-they’re in Ireland, Chord’s not going to miss this because he’s sulking alone in his room-they all go out together. Like a final toast to the crazy summer they’ve had. A temporary goodbye to each other. Temporary for some of them, anyway. They score a back room at a fancy Irish restaurant and the beer flows freely and Chord feels good, or at least better than he has in a week. He’s on his fourth Guinness when someone taps their spoon against their glass, and then there’s speeches being made, funny ones; no one’s really taking this seriously. Darren’s at the opposite end of the table, sandwiched in between Lea and Naya, and he’s quieter than he usually is, more thoughtful.
When it’s Chord’s turn he clears his throat. He hasn’t told them yet. He hasn’t really known how to. He stands up a little unsteadily, looks at them all, and forces himself to smile. “So, uh,” he says, “this was a kickass summer, and thank you guys for letting me be part of it. You guys are some of the best friends I’ve ever had, so, uh.” His throat tightens. He wants to blame it on the beer, the environment, but he just tightens his grip around his cup and tries not to let his voice break. “That’s why it sucks that… I’m, uh, I’m not coming back next season.”
There’s a ghostly silence in the room. Thirteen faces look back at him, shocked, and then Mark says, “Wait, dude, what?”
“I’m focusing on my music,” Chord says, which was the stock answer his manager had given him. “And I’ll really miss you guys, but I know you’ll be awesome, and we’ll stay in contact and… and yeah.”
“Chordy,” Dianna says, and it looks like she’s about to cry, so he has to rip his eyes away and stare at the ceiling instead. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. So. Tomorrow we’ll have fun, and let’s not-let’s not make this weird, because I’m not dying. I’m not disappearing off the face of the planet. I love all of y’all.” He pauses. “That’s all,” he adds, and then he sits back down.
Lea reaches over and puts her hand over his. Kevin drapes his arm around the back of his chair. Chord doesn’t want to look, but he does, and Darren’s staring down at his plate silently, not saying a word.
It takes ten minutes for someone else to start talking. Cory finally stands up and makes jokes, lightens the mood, and Chord’s heart feels so heavy he’s surprised it hasn’t sank into his stomach, but at least it’s over with. At least that part is done.
They do have fun the next night. They go a little crazy. Someone busts out the waterguns, and they’re chasing each other around stage, and making faces while they’re performing. Ashley tells him backstage that Darren kissed Chris during his their skit, just really smacked a big one on him, and Chord pretends to laugh like that’s funny but he actually feels like there’s a hole in his gut. After the show they all hug and hug and hug like they’re never going to see each other again, and maybe it’s just halfway playing it up for the crowd, but it really does feel like that. It feels very final. Chord has to tell himself to keep smiling because he doesn’t know what the alternative is.
Later that night he goes out and gets very, very drunk. So drunk he doesn’t even really remember what happens, which is fine with him. He’s actually starting to think it’s better that way
The rest of the summer, once he’s back in America, happens in a blur. The news had leaked to the media; his manager tells him not to answer any questions, not to accept any calls. It’s like he knows Chord sucks at interviews, knows he’ll say the wrong thing, and he’s trying to avoid it before it happens. Falling from Glee is a pretty damn long way to fall. “Let’s not make it sound any worse than it is,” his manager tells him.
So he turns into somewhat of a recluse. He spends a week with his family, but he doesn’t even tell them the whole story, just lets them act all surprised and comforting towards him, and then once he’s back in Los Angeles he dives into his music. He still hangs out with Cory and Mark in their downtime. He goes to events but skips the red carpets. He ignores three phone calls and five texts from Darren.
In a way, this whole thing is a relief. He can forget about Darren, about the whole weird thing that went on this summer. Pretend it never happened. He doesn’t need to have any conversations. Doesn’t need for anyone to know. Doesn’t have to make himself even more of a fucking social outcast than he already is.
Four days before filming starts for season three, Chord walks down the street at The Grove alone, and there’s a guy with a camera there-there’s always guys with cameras there. Paparazzi hang out there pretty much all the time, waiting. Stalking their prey.
He doesn’t even look at Chord, though. Doesn’t try once to take his picture.
It’s one of the most depressing things Chord has ever experienced. Ever.
He meets Emma at some press event. She’s cute, and fun, and easy to talk to. She’s the opposite of Darren in every single way.
Maybe that’s why he keeps her around.
He doesn’t watch the first episode of season three until a week and a half after it’s aired, and even then it’s alone in his apartment at night, because he doesn’t know how he’s going to feel, doesn’t know how he’s going to react. Really, though, it just makes him fucking sad and lonely, and his heart does this stupid thing when he sees Darren on screen for the first time, and he thinks about calling him and apologizing for his blowup, and telling him that he was really awesome, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’d called Darren a coward but it was obvious who the real coward here was. It’d been him all along.
Darren eventually stops calling. Chord’s both relieved and a little bitter that he’s seemed to finally, finally give up.
Three weeks after that all of the relief has drained out. It’s just bitterness now. Like when you know you’ve lost something that’s impossible to get back. That’s what Darren is. Chord hates this person he’s become, but he doesn’t know who else he could possibly be.
His manager calls him again in the middle of a music session, which is actually an ‘eat Spaghetti-O’s and watch stupid Youtube videos’ session. That’s what most of his sessions look like these days. He’s pathetic.
“If you want back in,” his manager tells him, not bothering with pleasantries, “they’ll have you. Starting mid-season. It’s your choice. Nothing’s set in stone, but if you miss Glee-now’s your chance to come back.”
Chord drops the bowl and doesn’t even care when the red sauce splashes all over his carpet, his couch. He takes stupidly long breaths, like his respiratory system can’t keep up with the rest of him. It’s-he can’t help it. He can’t stop grinning. He can’t remember why he’d denied their offer in the first place. It might not be a series regular offer, but it’s an offer. He wants back. He wants his old life back so badly.
But he tells his manager to let him think about it and then he spends twenty minutes drafting a text to Mark. Should Sam Evans come back 2 Mckinley? is what he finally decides on, and within five seconds his phone is buzzing, and Mark’s response is in all capital letters, a very emphatic, UH… YES.
Half of his brain considers texting Darren again, but what good would that do? It’d just be awkward, and-and if this thing is real, if this is legit, he’ll see him on set in a little over a month and a half and he’s not even sure that’s enough time to prepare himself, so he doesn’t want to sidle that unnecessary panic on himself right now.
Instead he calls his manager back. He picks up on the first ring.
“I’m in,” Chord says.
His whole body has goosebumps.
The first day back on set feels like a birthday party where he’s the guest of honor. He gets about thirty-seven body-crushing hugs from anyone and everyone, the cast and the crew and even the guy that brings donuts and bagels every morning. He’s spent the last few weeks mentally preparing himself and even still he doesn’t really feel ready. He trails after Cory and feels a little awkward, new kid syndrome all over, except that it quickly slips away into the comfort he’d once developed, which is the greatest feeling he’s ever experienced.
He doesn’t see Darren until lunchtime. He’s leaving the bathroom when Darren’s about to enter. They do a weird little sidestep right outside the door before they both give up and lock eyes, and Chord offers up a tentative smile. “Hey,” he says, unsure.
Darren, though, he doesn’t know how to stay mad at people. Or maybe he doesn’t know how to stay mad at Chord. “Hey,” he says, and he offers him a handshake. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, man.”
The handshake doesn’t linger. Chord sort of wants it to.
“So,” Darren says.
“I’ve missed you,” Chord says.
Darren’s eyebrows-those damn eyebrows-climb dangerously high on his face. That’s not the sort of thing Chord allows himself to say, ever, especially not to other dudes. It’s something Darren would say. Thoughtless and easy and unafraid of implications. Apparently he’s rubbed off on him.
“You too,” Darren says. “You didn’t call me back.”
“Yeah.” Chord rubs the back of his neck, isn’t going to make up any lies or excuses, no my phone’s been out of service. He lifts his shoulders into an apologetic shrug. “I’ve been too busy being a wimp.”
“You’re not a wimp,” Darren says, almost like it’s a reflex.
“Sometimes I am.”
“Well,” Darren says. “You’ve got plenty of time to change that.”
“Yeah,” Chord says again. He looks at Darren, really looks at him, the way he hasn’t allowed himself to do in months. And it’s like back when he used to tell himself that he was screwed, except he doesn’t feel screwed anymore. For once he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong about this. He lets his hand drop back to his side. “I’m playing a stripper.”
Darren laughs. “I know.”
“I guess that’s the hell you pay when you piss off Ryan Murphy.”
“I think they’re actually just pandering to the audience. The whole world wants to see you naked, Chord.”
Chord smiles, a real smile this time. “Even you?”
He’s joking, but Darren answers anyway. Because that’s the kind of person he is. Because those are the kind of people they are. “Even me,” he says. “Even when you’ve blown me off for two months. You’re not getting an apology pizza this time.”
“I think it’s my turn to order the apology pizza,” Chord says, and then, testing out the waters, “My apartment? Tonight?”
There’s a brief pause between them. Darren looks like he’s considering it, like he’s not sure he wants to jump back into this. But maybe he thinks Chord’s just as magnetic and likable as Darren is, even if he isn’t. Even if he’s nowhere close.
“Yeah,” Darren says. “If you’re paying.”
“Then it’s a date,” Chord says, and Darren doesn’t correct him. He just nods and disappears into the bathroom, and Chord has no answer for when Mark asks him why he’s smiling so creepily, and he really doesn’t care. It’s a date.
He doesn’t care about the glitz and glamour. About fame and celebrity and about having his picture taken at 7-Eleven. This is all he wanted. His friends and this show and this-this whatever it is, this thing with Darren. When he looks at the big picture…things really aren’t so bad.
the end.
title taken from Quiet Company.
one | two | three | four
by novelized. ~32,000 words.
fandom: Glee RPF.
pairing: Chord Overstreet/Darren Criss.
summary: Chord Overstreet doesn't want to like Darren, but the sad truth of the fact is that he can't help it. Darren Criss, that asshole, is impossible to dislike.
(alternatively: Something Went Down in the Tent at Coachella.)
With less than two weeks of the tour left, his manager gives him a call.
He’s sharing a room with Cory tonight, and they’re flipping through the channels on TV when his phone rings. He pushes himself up off the bed and goes out into the hall to answer it. His manager never calls except to talk business, so Chord thinks maybe there’s an opportunity lining up, a singing gig or some guest starring role that’ll happen before filming starts for season three.
It’s not that, though. It’s nothing like that.
“Chord,” his manager tells him, and he sounds oddly serious, “I want to tell you something, and I wanted to be the first one to tell you.”
And Chord’s already feeling weird enough lately that this doesn’t even register. He digs his toes into the carpet and says, “Okay.”
Even still there’s a long pause on the phone. Like he’s afraid to come out with it. Like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say.
Finally, finally, he says, “You’re not being picked up as a series regular.”
Chord’s stomach drops. That was the last thing he’d been expecting, but it’s not-it’s not the end of the world, right, there were still a few of them that were on recurring contracts, it’s not like he’s being fired. It kind of sucks, but he’ll get over it. He has to. “Okay,” he says evenly. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“That’s not all.”
This time Chord’s stomach really plunges, because his manager doesn’t do the thing where he plays bad news good news. It’s going to be bad news bad news. He can tell. “Yeah?”
“Darren Criss and Harry Shum Jr. were picked up as series regulars.”
And that’s the worst fucking thing he’s heard all day.
It’s-he doesn’t know how to walk the line between being happy for them (because he is happy for them, it’s a huge thing, it’s big, it’s great) and feeling like he’d just been kicked in the balls and told he wasn’t good enough. That’s what this boils down to, isn’t it? Chord’s not good enough to be a regular. He’s not good enough to be one of them. He’s been on the show longer than Darren has. He’s had more lines than Harry has. And still. The truth is staring him right in the eye.
He fucking hates the truth.
“Wow,” Chord says, and there’s something almost like a burning in the back of his eyes but he blinks it away, because no. He’s not that dude. “That’s… okay. Yeah, okay.”
“We have options,” his manager says. “I’ll let you sleep on this, but there are other things we can explore.”
“Sure,” says Chord, not really thinking, because his voice doesn’t even sound like a real voice anymore, maybe just a faint buzzing in the background. “Right. I’ll, uh. We’ll talk later. I’m gonna-like you said, I’m gonna sleep on it.”
“Okay. Don’t get too discouraged.”
“Right.” Except Chord’s sort of laughing about that as he hangs up the phone. Don’t get too discouraged? As if anything good could come from this? He walks back into the room, feels like a zombie. Like his vision has gone all weirdly Technicolor and fuzzy.
“You okay, man?” Cory asks, squinting at him.
Chord can’t remember what he was doing before the call. He climbs up into bed and lays flat on his back, doesn’t even bother with pillows, stares up at the ceiling. He can still feel Cory’s concerned gaze on the side of his face. Cory’s been a series regular since day one. There was never any question about his contract. He wouldn’t understand. “I’m going to bed,” Chord mumbles, and it sounds like he’s speaking through a vacuum. It’s stupid, because he knows he’ll never be able to turn his brain off enough to actually sleep. He thinks about texting Darren, and then-that thought almost makes him sit up straight in bed. Did Darren know? All this time, with everything that was happening-did Darren already know? He must’ve. How could he not?
Bile climbs up Chord’s throat. He forces it back down.
Just as he’d predicted, he doesn’t sleep a single second all night long.
Cory’s gone before he is the next morning. Every action feels sluggish. Even buttoning his pants takes five minutes longer than normal. There’s a knock at the door. Chord finishes pulling his shirt on over his head before he even thinks about answering it. It’s Darren. Of course it is.
“Morning,” he says cheerfully, grinning and leaning in the second the door behind him has closed. Good morning kisses aren’t unusual, not lately. Chord turns his cheek.
Darren blinks at him when his lips connect with the side of Chord’s jaw, but he recovers quickly. “You okay?” he asks, running his hand along Chord’s side. Chord pulls away. There’s that need-to-throw-up feeling again. He really, really wants to be left alone.
“Fine,” he says flatly, turning around and shoving last night’s clothes into his suitcase. Darren hovers in the doorway, unsure.
“Chord…” he says, and it’s like something inside Chord snaps. He drops his shirt, turns to face Darren. Can’t help his expression, the anger unrolling in his chest.
“How long have you known?” he demands.
Darren looks bewildered, and that just pisses him off even more. He hates people who play coy. He hates everything about this. “Known what?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t fucking do that. How long have you known?”
“Chord, I don’t-”
And Chord’s just… just exploding over the top with feelings. He feels mentally unstable and stupid for buying into this for so long, for thinking he’d felt some sort of attachment, some sense of belonging. He knows, deep down, that absolutely none of this is Darren’s fault, this has absolutely nothing to do with him, and yet it hurts so fucking bad and he has no one else to blame, no one else to take his anger out on. He wants to punch something. Put his fist through the wall. “How long have you known that you got promoted and I didn’t?” he asks, chest sort of heaving, the back of his neck boiling hot.
The color drains from Darren’s face, and he can’t even pretend to deny it. “Chord,” he says quietly, “I’m really-”
But Chord doesn’t want to hear that, not right now. “How long?”
And Darren goes quiet and there’s nothing in the room but radio silence and Chord’s heavy breathing and Darren looks at him, soft and sad, and says in a voice that’s too hushed to be his own, “A week.”
A week. A fucking week.
“That’s great,” Chord says, and he’s laughing now, because what other choice does he have? “That’s awesome, really, man. Thanks for letting me know. What, were you having a big fucking laugh about it behind my back? You and Harry?”
“No!” Darren says quickly, and his eyes are widening, like he’s-like he’s hurt by the accusation, and Chord’s so mad he’s just thinking fuck it, seriously, fuck Darren for lying to him and fuck himself for believing it.
“You didn’t say anything. You could’ve said something.”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you-”
“Oh, fuck you,” Chord says loudly, doesn’t even bother to keep his voice down, doesn’t know how. Let the neighbors next door hear. He doesn’t give a shit. “All that bullshit about-about you and me, you knew and you weren’t going to tell me, that’s freaking cowardly, man. So-so what? You could get into my pants for a week longer?”
“Chord, seriously, no, that’s not it at all-”
“Whatever. Just… get out.”
Darren looks more hurt than Chord has ever seen him, but the thing is, he doesn’t even care. He has no right to look like that. He’s got the whole fucking world handed to him on a silver platter. Since day one, his face has been everywhere. He could have anything he ever wanted. He was promoted to series regular after half a season, just because he’s-because he’s what Chord couldn’t be. What Chord wasn’t good enough for.
“Chord,” he says again, and his eyes are almost pleading. “Just-let’s talk, okay?”
“No,” Chord says immediately. He’s fine with being petty. He thinks it’s way overdue. “Get out. I’m serious. This-this thing, I’m done. It’s done.”
“It’s not even that big of a deal, they still want you back-”
“Right,” Chord says, and his hands drop down to his sides limply. He shakes his head, laughs again. Of course it’s not that big of a deal. Not when it’s happening to him. “Okay, Darren. Thanks for the perspective. I’m serious now. Get out.”
And Darren doesn’t really have a choice, even though he looks like it’s the last thing he wants to do. He backs up towards the door, but slowly, like he’s expecting Chord to stop him.
He doesn’t.
“They still want you,” Darren says quietly, hand on the doorknob, and then, even more quietly, “I still want you.”
“I’m done,” Chord says again. His ears are ringing, his skin prickling. “Seriously. I’m done.”
Darren casts him one more lingering look, and his eyes are shining, and his eyebrows are drawn in, but Chord doesn’t say anything so he opens the door and he leaves. It takes a good three minutes for Chord to remember how to breathe normally. He sits down on the corner of the mattress and shoves his knuckles into his eyes and tries his best to count backwards.
This time, it doesn’t help.
Chord spends the next two days avoiding everyone. He stays to himself every minute they’re not on stage, and even then he’s burnt out, lackluster, doesn’t get into it the way he normally does. They all keep shooting him these concerned looks and it drives him crazy. How’s he supposed to dance with them when he’s not one of them? Why is he finishing the tour at all?
He spends a lot of time on the phone with his manager. They talk about everything, every possible option. “You don’t have to come back, you know,” he tells Chord, and Chord’s heart sort of clenches at the idea, but. But still. “You don’t have to come back at all.”
Another two days and he’s made his decision.
It’s the hardest fucking thing he’s ever had to do.
The night before the last show-they’re in Ireland, Chord’s not going to miss this because he’s sulking alone in his room-they all go out together. Like a final toast to the crazy summer they’ve had. A temporary goodbye to each other. Temporary for some of them, anyway. They score a back room at a fancy Irish restaurant and the beer flows freely and Chord feels good, or at least better than he has in a week. He’s on his fourth Guinness when someone taps their spoon against their glass, and then there’s speeches being made, funny ones; no one’s really taking this seriously. Darren’s at the opposite end of the table, sandwiched in between Lea and Naya, and he’s quieter than he usually is, more thoughtful.
When it’s Chord’s turn he clears his throat. He hasn’t told them yet. He hasn’t really known how to. He stands up a little unsteadily, looks at them all, and forces himself to smile. “So, uh,” he says, “this was a kickass summer, and thank you guys for letting me be part of it. You guys are some of the best friends I’ve ever had, so, uh.” His throat tightens. He wants to blame it on the beer, the environment, but he just tightens his grip around his cup and tries not to let his voice break. “That’s why it sucks that… I’m, uh, I’m not coming back next season.”
There’s a ghostly silence in the room. Thirteen faces look back at him, shocked, and then Mark says, “Wait, dude, what?”
“I’m focusing on my music,” Chord says, which was the stock answer his manager had given him. “And I’ll really miss you guys, but I know you’ll be awesome, and we’ll stay in contact and… and yeah.”
“Chordy,” Dianna says, and it looks like she’s about to cry, so he has to rip his eyes away and stare at the ceiling instead. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. So. Tomorrow we’ll have fun, and let’s not-let’s not make this weird, because I’m not dying. I’m not disappearing off the face of the planet. I love all of y’all.” He pauses. “That’s all,” he adds, and then he sits back down.
Lea reaches over and puts her hand over his. Kevin drapes his arm around the back of his chair. Chord doesn’t want to look, but he does, and Darren’s staring down at his plate silently, not saying a word.
It takes ten minutes for someone else to start talking. Cory finally stands up and makes jokes, lightens the mood, and Chord’s heart feels so heavy he’s surprised it hasn’t sank into his stomach, but at least it’s over with. At least that part is done.
They do have fun the next night. They go a little crazy. Someone busts out the waterguns, and they’re chasing each other around stage, and making faces while they’re performing. Ashley tells him backstage that Darren kissed Chris during his their skit, just really smacked a big one on him, and Chord pretends to laugh like that’s funny but he actually feels like there’s a hole in his gut. After the show they all hug and hug and hug like they’re never going to see each other again, and maybe it’s just halfway playing it up for the crowd, but it really does feel like that. It feels very final. Chord has to tell himself to keep smiling because he doesn’t know what the alternative is.
Later that night he goes out and gets very, very drunk. So drunk he doesn’t even really remember what happens, which is fine with him. He’s actually starting to think it’s better that way
The rest of the summer, once he’s back in America, happens in a blur. The news had leaked to the media; his manager tells him not to answer any questions, not to accept any calls. It’s like he knows Chord sucks at interviews, knows he’ll say the wrong thing, and he’s trying to avoid it before it happens. Falling from Glee is a pretty damn long way to fall. “Let’s not make it sound any worse than it is,” his manager tells him.
So he turns into somewhat of a recluse. He spends a week with his family, but he doesn’t even tell them the whole story, just lets them act all surprised and comforting towards him, and then once he’s back in Los Angeles he dives into his music. He still hangs out with Cory and Mark in their downtime. He goes to events but skips the red carpets. He ignores three phone calls and five texts from Darren.
In a way, this whole thing is a relief. He can forget about Darren, about the whole weird thing that went on this summer. Pretend it never happened. He doesn’t need to have any conversations. Doesn’t need for anyone to know. Doesn’t have to make himself even more of a fucking social outcast than he already is.
Four days before filming starts for season three, Chord walks down the street at The Grove alone, and there’s a guy with a camera there-there’s always guys with cameras there. Paparazzi hang out there pretty much all the time, waiting. Stalking their prey.
He doesn’t even look at Chord, though. Doesn’t try once to take his picture.
It’s one of the most depressing things Chord has ever experienced. Ever.
He meets Emma at some press event. She’s cute, and fun, and easy to talk to. She’s the opposite of Darren in every single way.
Maybe that’s why he keeps her around.
He doesn’t watch the first episode of season three until a week and a half after it’s aired, and even then it’s alone in his apartment at night, because he doesn’t know how he’s going to feel, doesn’t know how he’s going to react. Really, though, it just makes him fucking sad and lonely, and his heart does this stupid thing when he sees Darren on screen for the first time, and he thinks about calling him and apologizing for his blowup, and telling him that he was really awesome, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’d called Darren a coward but it was obvious who the real coward here was. It’d been him all along.
Darren eventually stops calling. Chord’s both relieved and a little bitter that he’s seemed to finally, finally give up.
Three weeks after that all of the relief has drained out. It’s just bitterness now. Like when you know you’ve lost something that’s impossible to get back. That’s what Darren is. Chord hates this person he’s become, but he doesn’t know who else he could possibly be.
His manager calls him again in the middle of a music session, which is actually an ‘eat Spaghetti-O’s and watch stupid Youtube videos’ session. That’s what most of his sessions look like these days. He’s pathetic.
“If you want back in,” his manager tells him, not bothering with pleasantries, “they’ll have you. Starting mid-season. It’s your choice. Nothing’s set in stone, but if you miss Glee-now’s your chance to come back.”
Chord drops the bowl and doesn’t even care when the red sauce splashes all over his carpet, his couch. He takes stupidly long breaths, like his respiratory system can’t keep up with the rest of him. It’s-he can’t help it. He can’t stop grinning. He can’t remember why he’d denied their offer in the first place. It might not be a series regular offer, but it’s an offer. He wants back. He wants his old life back so badly.
But he tells his manager to let him think about it and then he spends twenty minutes drafting a text to Mark. Should Sam Evans come back 2 Mckinley? is what he finally decides on, and within five seconds his phone is buzzing, and Mark’s response is in all capital letters, a very emphatic, UH… YES.
Half of his brain considers texting Darren again, but what good would that do? It’d just be awkward, and-and if this thing is real, if this is legit, he’ll see him on set in a little over a month and a half and he’s not even sure that’s enough time to prepare himself, so he doesn’t want to sidle that unnecessary panic on himself right now.
Instead he calls his manager back. He picks up on the first ring.
“I’m in,” Chord says.
His whole body has goosebumps.
The first day back on set feels like a birthday party where he’s the guest of honor. He gets about thirty-seven body-crushing hugs from anyone and everyone, the cast and the crew and even the guy that brings donuts and bagels every morning. He’s spent the last few weeks mentally preparing himself and even still he doesn’t really feel ready. He trails after Cory and feels a little awkward, new kid syndrome all over, except that it quickly slips away into the comfort he’d once developed, which is the greatest feeling he’s ever experienced.
He doesn’t see Darren until lunchtime. He’s leaving the bathroom when Darren’s about to enter. They do a weird little sidestep right outside the door before they both give up and lock eyes, and Chord offers up a tentative smile. “Hey,” he says, unsure.
Darren, though, he doesn’t know how to stay mad at people. Or maybe he doesn’t know how to stay mad at Chord. “Hey,” he says, and he offers him a handshake. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, man.”
The handshake doesn’t linger. Chord sort of wants it to.
“So,” Darren says.
“I’ve missed you,” Chord says.
Darren’s eyebrows-those damn eyebrows-climb dangerously high on his face. That’s not the sort of thing Chord allows himself to say, ever, especially not to other dudes. It’s something Darren would say. Thoughtless and easy and unafraid of implications. Apparently he’s rubbed off on him.
“You too,” Darren says. “You didn’t call me back.”
“Yeah.” Chord rubs the back of his neck, isn’t going to make up any lies or excuses, no my phone’s been out of service. He lifts his shoulders into an apologetic shrug. “I’ve been too busy being a wimp.”
“You’re not a wimp,” Darren says, almost like it’s a reflex.
“Sometimes I am.”
“Well,” Darren says. “You’ve got plenty of time to change that.”
“Yeah,” Chord says again. He looks at Darren, really looks at him, the way he hasn’t allowed himself to do in months. And it’s like back when he used to tell himself that he was screwed, except he doesn’t feel screwed anymore. For once he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong about this. He lets his hand drop back to his side. “I’m playing a stripper.”
Darren laughs. “I know.”
“I guess that’s the hell you pay when you piss off Ryan Murphy.”
“I think they’re actually just pandering to the audience. The whole world wants to see you naked, Chord.”
Chord smiles, a real smile this time. “Even you?”
He’s joking, but Darren answers anyway. Because that’s the kind of person he is. Because those are the kind of people they are. “Even me,” he says. “Even when you’ve blown me off for two months. You’re not getting an apology pizza this time.”
“I think it’s my turn to order the apology pizza,” Chord says, and then, testing out the waters, “My apartment? Tonight?”
There’s a brief pause between them. Darren looks like he’s considering it, like he’s not sure he wants to jump back into this. But maybe he thinks Chord’s just as magnetic and likable as Darren is, even if he isn’t. Even if he’s nowhere close.
“Yeah,” Darren says. “If you’re paying.”
“Then it’s a date,” Chord says, and Darren doesn’t correct him. He just nods and disappears into the bathroom, and Chord has no answer for when Mark asks him why he’s smiling so creepily, and he really doesn’t care. It’s a date.
He doesn’t care about the glitz and glamour. About fame and celebrity and about having his picture taken at 7-Eleven. This is all he wanted. His friends and this show and this-this whatever it is, this thing with Darren. When he looks at the big picture…things really aren’t so bad.
the end.
title taken from Quiet Company.
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