Two drafts: Sparks/Satisfaction
catwalksalone wanted me to post these. That was months ago, mind you, but in view of her recent near-death experience, I suppose I'd better do what I'm told.
Remember: drafts! They got cut down into drabbles. Long story. Well, not the drabbles. Those are very short stories ...
Sparks
It's been years since you bought concert tickets (actually? Forever. You were never really that into music). You’re pretty sure it should be easier than this, just a matter of going online or picking up the phone. What it actually involves is complex and barely-legal wrangling and the exchange of a ridiculous sum of money. But the glow in Danny's eyes when he opens the envelope ("Mallomars are getting thinner …") makes it worthwhile.
At thirty, you were long-married, a father. Danny, by contrast, still seems like a child sometimes, more so even than Charlie, who was hardly this enthused about his first bike. You envy him; you yearn to regain that intrinsic innocence, that sense of wonder.
He insists you use the second ticket. You feel guilty - they're like golddust, it should go to a real fan - but you can never say no to Dan when he looks at you that way. You endure the music; spend most of it watching Danny, wondering how, with his vast breadth of sports knowledge, there's room in his mind for the lyrics to, apparently, every one of this guy's songs too.
You take the subway home, Dan so wired he might as well fly and be done with it. He's going to crash, you know, and he does, three stops from home, his head on your shoulder.
You're alone in the car; there's no-one to see if you slide your arm around him, or lift your hand, run it lightly through his hair.
No-one to see.
***
Satisfaction
Casey was the last to know. Dan knew that was all wrong, but … he just hadn't known how to tell him. Casey would be hurt, and he was sorry for that, if there'd been any way to avoid it, he'd've taken it; and he'd be angry, because he was Casey, and that was how he reacted to change. But Casey surprised him. He was reasonable, calm; heard Dan out, nodded thoughtfully, said things like "It's probably for the best," and "You deserve more than this". And, of course, "You can make it without me. No question, Danny. You've always been good enough, and this is way overdue."
Casey was fine. So was Dana, mostly. She wasn't pleased, but she took it pretty well. Which was more than could be said for Natalie, who didn't speak to him for two weeks. He'd have been happier if she'd just stolen his pants and had done with it.
Isaac was the worst. Dan thought he had all his arguments marshalled, and went in full of confidence, but found it hard to meet Isaac's understanding eyes; found himself slumped in the office chair, crying helplessly into his clenched fists. Isaac limped around the desk to lay a hand on his shoulder, held him in his arms until the sobbing died away.
Losing Isaac was like losing a part of himself. But he'd made up his mind.
*
The last day arrives. He signs off, smiling till the end: "… for the last time, you've been watching Sports Night with Dan Rydell. Casey?" and, thank god, he holds it together until the camera pans away.
There's champagne afterward, and cake. Everyone clusters around, watches him open his gifts, patting him on the shoulder, slapping his back, telling him how he'll be missed. (Half of them, he knows, have already forgotten his name; some of them had never known it at all.)
Casey isn't there.
Too hard for him, Dan tells himself. And he can't blame him. He isn't sure himself how he'd have handled that final goodbye. Not that it will be final - no way. They'll keep in touch, of course they will. They've been friends all these years; how can they possibly just throw that away?
He makes a pretty good speech, he thinks, keeping a lid on his feelings; maybe a little bit splashes out around the edges, but not enough to embarrass him or anyone else. "I'll see you on the other side!" he finishes, because that's where he's going - to San Francisco, not to another anchor job but to soak up the sun for six months and finish the half-drafted novel that's cluttered his desk drawer for years now. Natalie brings him his coat, and hugs him, so he knows he's forgiven, and then he's heading for the door.
He never gets there. The fire escape door swings open and there's Casey, striding through. Three long steps, and he's there, right there, square in Dan's path. For a split second he just stands, breathing harshly while his eyes search Dan's face. And then he reaches out, grabs Dan by the shoulders, pulls him forward and kisses him, kisses him and keeps on kissing him until Dan staggers, dizzy, and lifts his hands to steady himself and finds, yes, Casey's arms, Casey's shoulders and back and he clings because it's the only way he can remain upright and there's a roaring in his ears and he thinks he's going to pass out but damned if he will, he's waited years for this, he's not going to miss a second of it and then he realises that what he can hear is applause, the whole damn office is cheering and clapping, and someone (Jeremy?) yells out, "It's about time!" and god, has he ever got it right because it really is, it really is.
Casey pulls back eventually, still gripping his arms, and shakes him gently.
"I can't, Danny," he says, right out loud for god and everyone to hear. "I can't do it without you, and if I could, I wouldn't want to. I don't know where the hell you're going, or what you think you're going to do - but wherever it is, I'm going with you. I'm not going to lose you, Danny. I won't, I can't - " And his voice breaks into a thread.
Dan reaches up and brushes away the tear that no-one else but he should see. "You'll never have to," he whispers.
And, at last, they understand one another.
***
There ya go, dear. All this, and choklit too. Happy now?
Remember: drafts! They got cut down into drabbles. Long story. Well, not the drabbles. Those are very short stories ...
Sparks
It's been years since you bought concert tickets (actually? Forever. You were never really that into music). You’re pretty sure it should be easier than this, just a matter of going online or picking up the phone. What it actually involves is complex and barely-legal wrangling and the exchange of a ridiculous sum of money. But the glow in Danny's eyes when he opens the envelope ("Mallomars are getting thinner …") makes it worthwhile.
At thirty, you were long-married, a father. Danny, by contrast, still seems like a child sometimes, more so even than Charlie, who was hardly this enthused about his first bike. You envy him; you yearn to regain that intrinsic innocence, that sense of wonder.
He insists you use the second ticket. You feel guilty - they're like golddust, it should go to a real fan - but you can never say no to Dan when he looks at you that way. You endure the music; spend most of it watching Danny, wondering how, with his vast breadth of sports knowledge, there's room in his mind for the lyrics to, apparently, every one of this guy's songs too.
You take the subway home, Dan so wired he might as well fly and be done with it. He's going to crash, you know, and he does, three stops from home, his head on your shoulder.
You're alone in the car; there's no-one to see if you slide your arm around him, or lift your hand, run it lightly through his hair.
No-one to see.
***
Satisfaction
Casey was the last to know. Dan knew that was all wrong, but … he just hadn't known how to tell him. Casey would be hurt, and he was sorry for that, if there'd been any way to avoid it, he'd've taken it; and he'd be angry, because he was Casey, and that was how he reacted to change. But Casey surprised him. He was reasonable, calm; heard Dan out, nodded thoughtfully, said things like "It's probably for the best," and "You deserve more than this". And, of course, "You can make it without me. No question, Danny. You've always been good enough, and this is way overdue."
Casey was fine. So was Dana, mostly. She wasn't pleased, but she took it pretty well. Which was more than could be said for Natalie, who didn't speak to him for two weeks. He'd have been happier if she'd just stolen his pants and had done with it.
Isaac was the worst. Dan thought he had all his arguments marshalled, and went in full of confidence, but found it hard to meet Isaac's understanding eyes; found himself slumped in the office chair, crying helplessly into his clenched fists. Isaac limped around the desk to lay a hand on his shoulder, held him in his arms until the sobbing died away.
Losing Isaac was like losing a part of himself. But he'd made up his mind.
*
The last day arrives. He signs off, smiling till the end: "… for the last time, you've been watching Sports Night with Dan Rydell. Casey?" and, thank god, he holds it together until the camera pans away.
There's champagne afterward, and cake. Everyone clusters around, watches him open his gifts, patting him on the shoulder, slapping his back, telling him how he'll be missed. (Half of them, he knows, have already forgotten his name; some of them had never known it at all.)
Casey isn't there.
Too hard for him, Dan tells himself. And he can't blame him. He isn't sure himself how he'd have handled that final goodbye. Not that it will be final - no way. They'll keep in touch, of course they will. They've been friends all these years; how can they possibly just throw that away?
He makes a pretty good speech, he thinks, keeping a lid on his feelings; maybe a little bit splashes out around the edges, but not enough to embarrass him or anyone else. "I'll see you on the other side!" he finishes, because that's where he's going - to San Francisco, not to another anchor job but to soak up the sun for six months and finish the half-drafted novel that's cluttered his desk drawer for years now. Natalie brings him his coat, and hugs him, so he knows he's forgiven, and then he's heading for the door.
He never gets there. The fire escape door swings open and there's Casey, striding through. Three long steps, and he's there, right there, square in Dan's path. For a split second he just stands, breathing harshly while his eyes search Dan's face. And then he reaches out, grabs Dan by the shoulders, pulls him forward and kisses him, kisses him and keeps on kissing him until Dan staggers, dizzy, and lifts his hands to steady himself and finds, yes, Casey's arms, Casey's shoulders and back and he clings because it's the only way he can remain upright and there's a roaring in his ears and he thinks he's going to pass out but damned if he will, he's waited years for this, he's not going to miss a second of it and then he realises that what he can hear is applause, the whole damn office is cheering and clapping, and someone (Jeremy?) yells out, "It's about time!" and god, has he ever got it right because it really is, it really is.
Casey pulls back eventually, still gripping his arms, and shakes him gently.
"I can't, Danny," he says, right out loud for god and everyone to hear. "I can't do it without you, and if I could, I wouldn't want to. I don't know where the hell you're going, or what you think you're going to do - but wherever it is, I'm going with you. I'm not going to lose you, Danny. I won't, I can't - " And his voice breaks into a thread.
Dan reaches up and brushes away the tear that no-one else but he should see. "You'll never have to," he whispers.
And, at last, they understand one another.
***
There ya go, dear. All this, and choklit too. Happy now?