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Mar. 1st, 2004 07:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lierdumoaTitle: So I Was Thinking...
Fandom: QaF RPS
Pairing: Gale/Randy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Gale has issues. Randy gets caught in the wake. And then much sex is had. Oh, the humanity.
A/N: I so need to get a life. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
misswindy, queenofalostart, and rhiannonhero for betaing. If only I had listened to you more.
Notes to Self: rough draft; beta snark
So I was thinking about Randy naked, and it occurred to me that this wasn't exactly normal. At first I thought it was normal. After all, I see Randy naked all the time. But then I started thinking about Randy both naked and hard. And, okay, I also thought that was normal at first, because I see that too from time to time.
What really tipped me off that it wasn't normal was a conversation I had with Peter. It was one of those random conversations that jumps ten topics in five minutes. First we were talking about method acting, and then we shifted over to character psychology, and then we were discussing inkblots, and somehow we moved on to stream-of-consciousness.
I mean, I think it's kinda funny, but people don't really think about what they're thinking. They just think, you know? And it's a good thing I don't think out loud, because if I did, by the looks of that last sentence, I'd come off as a total dumbfuck. Which would be, like, bad. But anyway, when Peter mentioned it, I started to look back over the past five minutes of our conversation. Only about a quarter of my thoughts had actually been on the conversation.
And the rest of my thoughts? Well, first I'd been running through a few of my lines for the scene we were about to film. You know, I'm kind of jealous of Brian. He always has a good retort for everything. Even when he's high as a frickin’ kite. And then it wasn't my lines I was thinking about. It was Michelle, and that one episode where Lindsey found out Melanie had done nude photos. I mean, she's really gorgeous, but she doesn't have much in the bust department. Her tits are tiny. And tit is such a weird word. Especially when Brian says it. And then I started thinking that I hadn't been in a scene with Randy in a while. A sex scene, I mean. It made me a little sad, really, because I liked having scenes with Randy. He's a nice guy and a good actor and he looks great naked.
I remembered that first episode where I had my tongue about a two centimeters from his hole. I told an interviewer once that his ass had tasted a bit like cumin. I fucking love cumin. And I wondered what it felt like for him, because you know, when you're licking someone's ass a part of you wonders what it's like to be on the receiving end. I'd probably like having Randy's tongue in my ass, if it weren't for all the cameras. Or his fingers. Pushing inside. He's got really strong fingers, and sometimes I just stare at them for a bit and get distracted and...
And that's not exactly normal, is it?
Right. Didn't think so.
The thing I hate about epiphanies is that they always come at a bad time. Always. Here I was, in the middle of a conversation with Peter, and all of a sudden I was thinking, "Oh my God, I'm bi." And then it was, "Oh my God, I'm attracted to Randy." And then, "Oh crap, I just got a hard on thinking about him."
And did I mention I was in the middle of a conversation with Peter?
He started to look at me strangely. I realized that he'd been waiting for me to say something for about forty seconds. I gave him a nervous look, then got up and excused myself to the bathroom. I nearly walked into a chair on the way. Peter asked me if I was alright, and by the tone of his voice, I couldn't tell if he was more worried or amused. Probably the second one.
I didn't go to the bathroom to jerk off. I wasn't that turned on. Actually I was that turned on. I just wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't by denying myself the pleasure. Of course, I didn't prove anything, except that a bathroom isn't the best place to have an identity crisis. Not nearly enough pacing room. I returned to the set twenty minutes late, but thankfully, not sporting wood. I made my excuses, and then the cameramen started filming.
I managed to remember all my lines. I even managed to look properly bored as twink No. 4 got down on his knees and pretended to suck me off. I didn't see Randy until the end of the day, when everybody started to pack up and head home. He caught me on my way back to my trailer. He took one look at my face and asked me what was wrong.
At which point I started giggling uncontrollably.
Breaking points are a lot like epiphanies, come to think of it. At least when it comes to timing.
Randy's face does a number of things when he's worried. His forehead scrunches and his teeth chew at his lower lip. His eyes grow big with concern. All I want to do is pull him into a hug. Sometimes I'm awed that he can be so obvious with his concern. Sure, he cares about everyone on the cast, but I'm the only one he goes all kicked puppy for. It's...
Well, it's kind of weird. Good weird. But weird.
That look on his face was the last thing I wanted to see as I headed towards my trailer. He looked so vulnerable, and I just had to touch him. But I couldn't, because if I did, I'd pull him into my arms, press my nose against his neck, feel the not quite feminine softness of his shaved skin against my jaw. I'd be able to listen to his breath as I wrapped my arms around him. And hearing him, and feeling him, and smelling him were so, so close to tasting him that I wouldn't be able to stop myself from opening my mouth and dragging my tongue up towards his ear.
Only it was wrong. Because we weren't on the set, and this wasn't acting. This was Randy, with his bottom lip red and wet from worry, and his eyes very, very blue and fuck. Fuck. I was hard again.
Cue uncontrollable giggling.
After almost a minute of my hysterics, Randy started to get really scared. He grabbed my arm and told me to stop, but I couldn't. I just fucking couldn't. He pushed me up against my trailer door and shouted my name but all I could feel was the panic bubbling out of my throat. And then his face was close. Too close. And I was resting my palms on his shoulders, like I did the first time I kissed my first girlfriend. Only I couldn't remember her name, because I was too busy forgetting everything but lips and teeth and tongue and Randy.
A moment or two passed. Randy broke the kiss abruptly, yanking away with enough force to slam me back against the entrance to my trailer. I let my arms hang in the air for a moment, confused at the sudden loss of sensation. It took me several seconds to reorganize my thoughts. Kissing Randy, I discovered, doesn't exactly lend itself to rational thought. By the time I was thinking clearly again, Randy was a good four feet away.
He exhaled heavily though his nose and stared into my face, his eyes dark and angry. "Gale, what the fuck was that?"
Good question.
I opened and closed my mouth a few times before finally stuttering out, "I...don't know?"
Now obviously this was the wrong thing to say. Randy didn't even bother to reply. He just glared at me. The look on his face reminded me of my first grade teacher's expression that time she caught me eating Play-Doh. In fact, I could almost hear her voice in my head saying, "I don't know how to tell you this Mrs. Harold, but your son is retarded."
Man, I hated her.
But where was I? Randy. Glaring at me. For being an idiot. I stared back at him helplessly, until finally his face took on a patient expression. "Gale, it's clear to me you've had a very trying day. So here's what we're going to do. First you're going to let us into your trailer. Then you're going to get us two beers out of your mini fridge. Then you're going to tell me why you seem to have lost your mind."
I took a moment to weight the pros and cons of the situation. On the one hand, I wasn't really ready to discuss my identity crisis. On the other hand, I was fairly sure if I didn't follow Randy's instructions -- to the letter -- he was going to queen out and never speak to me again. Or kill me. I wasn't sure which was worse.
Realizing I didn't have a choice in the matter, I led him into the trailer. Randy followed behind me, almost close enough to touch. He waited as I retrieved two bottles of Canadian beer from my fridge. He grabbed his bottle from my hand without our usual brush of fingers. I stared at his hands for a moment, missing the familiar touch.
I never really thought that he had artist's hands. He doesn't have long, graceful fingers. Not like mine, anyway. I probably would have made a good piano player. I -- oh, right. I was supposed to be explaining myself to Randy. Not pondering the shape of his thumbs and indexes. Maybe I really had lost my mind.
I started to feel antsy, and finally set down my drink and shoved my hands in my pockets to regain some control of the situation. Randy waited impatiently for me to start speaking. I decided to be as evasive as possible.
"I realized something about myself today," I began. "It left me somewhat unsettled. I didn't mean to take it out on you like that. I'm sorry."
"Gale, you shoved your tongue into my mouth. You're going to have to do better than that."
Apparently he wasn't going to make this easy on me. I decided to try another dodge.
"I shove my tongue in your mouth all the time," I said, matter of factly.
"No, Brian shoves his tongue in Justin's mouth. That's acting, Gale."
"I just. I can't talk about this right now, okay? Let's just forget it happened."
Randy stared hard at me for many long seconds. Then all of a sudden, his face went blank. "Sure," he said, his voice hollow. "Lets do that." He turned on his heel and left, beer in hand, shutting the door softly but firmly behind him.
This was not how it was supposed to go. Randy was supposed to laugh the whole thing off. Randy was supposed to have some fucking pity on me. At the very least, he was supposed to queen out and scream at me, so I'd at least have some warning that he was about to leave me. And fuck, what if he never came back? What if I went to work the next day and he just looked through me instead of at me? Suddenly all the panic I thought I'd left behind in the men's room came flying back.
Randy couldn't have just left. How was I supposed to deal with that?
I mean, first of all, what the fuck would I do with my hands if he stopped letting me stalk him around the set? I've always been a very tactile person. Randy's never seemed to mind. I've always been able to just go up to him and ruffle his hair, or throw an arm over his shoulder, or stretch my legs out under a table so my ankles knock his. I've always been able to grab him by the wrist or the elbow and drag him places. I know his skin so well I can find all his pulse points with my eyes closed. That probably should have clued me into the fact that I'm attracted to him, but hey. Can't blame me for being a bit slow on the uptake.
But God, he grabbed a beer bottle out of my hand without brushing our fingers together and I missed it. I fucking missed it, like a drug addict without a fix. I was about ten seconds away from going into serious withdrawl. Hal was going to walk in and find me shaking and drooling on the floor.
Uh, yeah.
Apparently Randy wasn't the only one capable of queening out.
Randy didn't speak to me for a week. Any conversations I started he quickly cut short. I stared at him from a distance, as much as I dared. People noticed that we weren't around each other as much. No one made a big deal of it.
I started jerking off with more and more frequency, until finally I'd exhausted all the porn in my apartment. I considered going shopping for more, but decided that naked women weren't really what I wanted at the moment. I considered popping in a DVD from last season, but decided that watching Randy and me pretend to fuck would only make matters worse.
I stopped jerking off, and decided to devote all my energies to catching Randy alone. It took a day or two. Finally I managed to corner him during his lunch break and ask, "Randy, can't we just be friends again?"
He closed his eyes and sighed. Finally he murmured, "Yes. Yes, we can be friends again."
He had never looked so defeated.
It was different, after that. I began to realize that being friends again was not the same as going back to the way things were. And I'd like to say that I was willing to take what I could get, but I wasn't. This wasn't what I wanted. This wasn't the Randy I knew. The one who dragged out conversations just because he liked to hear himself talk. The one who didn't notice when I hummed old 80's songs in his presence, but complained later when they were stuck in his head. The one who plopped down next to me on a couch, just close enough for our thighs to touch, and asked me what I'd done over the weekend.
Over the years I had become so comfortable with Randy that being without him had seemed like a discomfort in comparison. This sudden estrangement between us felt almost like torture. I didn't want to consider the possibility that I'd never have that kind of comfort again. Instead I concentrated on a more pressing matter. Namely, that I had fallen madly in love with Randy and somehow failed to notice.
Epiphanies suck ass.
The whole misery thing wasn't working for me. So I decided to tell Randy the truth. It seemed like a good plan. Of course, it took me a week to get over my shivering cowardice and actually go through with it.
I showed up at his apartment one evening after work. I knocked three times before he drowsily answered his door in just boxers and a white tee. "Gale, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you." It sounded like a good starting line.
"Come in," he said finally, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. He opened the door, then padded his way to the couch, turning down the volume on his tv. I sat down next to him. He scooted across the seat cushion, moving in just close enough for our thighs to touch.
And then it was easy. "I'm attracted to you," I began. "I'm very, very attracted to you. And that's why I kissed you."
Randy stiffened, but didn't move away. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I was too chickenshit before."
"You were too scared to tell me, but you weren't too scared to kiss me?"
"Well, that was different," I explained. "I wasn't really thinking."
"You weren't thinking," he echoed, disbelievingly. Annoyance quickly shifted to anger, and he snapped -- "What the hell does that mean?"
Jesus, he's hot when he's angry.
"It means I wasn't thinking, okay? I was kind of in the middle of an identiy crisis."
"Oh. So your attraction to me is some weird manifestation of an identity crisis," he responded, using a tone better equipped for humoring small children.
Fine, Randy. Mock my pain.
"No, actually."
"Gale, you're not even gay."
"Uhm, no. I'm bi."
"You're -- what? What? Since when?"
"Since always, I guess. Didn't really notice until two weeks ago."
"Two weeks ago when you kissed me."
"Yeah. That. Look, just hear me out. I didn't mean to make it seem like I was using you or anything. I just really, really had to kiss you. And I'm sorry if I ruined our friendship, but -- God -- is there any chance you feel the same way?"
My mind was screaming, 'please don't hurt me,' and I think I may have been visibly cringing waiting for his answer. He didn't say anything at first. He just stared at me like he was trying to crawl inside my brain. And then he was holding my face in his hands and curling his teeth over my lips and, sucking my tongue into his mouth and God. Yes.
Thankyou.
Randy kissed as if he were trying to swallow me whole. I remember his fingers twisting in my hair, his eyes dark and dilated, his mouth wide and grinning against my lips. He dragged me from the couch to his room. My shoes and socks came off somewhere along his hallway. He pushed me down onto his bed, hands on my shoulders, and held me against the sheets. His stomach was tense. I couuld see the soft skin stretched over a hard line of clenched muscle. His body was surrounded by the dim light filtering in from the entryway through the open bedroom door -- a shadow lined in white. My hands slid up under his boxers, gripping his thighs.
"Careful," he whispered against my mouth. "You know I bruise easily."
He unbuttoned my shirt, quickly and efficiently. He then dove down, teeth scraping against my nipples until I arched up against him, my voice caught somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Never this loud on the show. Never like this. God, I was so hard I could feel it in my toes. I wanted his tongue in my mouth, down my chest, wrapped around my dick, anywhere. I wanted his dick pressed against my stomach, the taste of it in my mouth, the feel of it sliding into me. I wanted him to --
"Fuck me," I gasped as he unbuckled my pants and slid them off my hips. "Christ, Randy, just --"
"Gale, shut the fuck up or I'm going to come right now," he growled, jumping off me to remove his own clothing. Once he’d finished, he crouched over me again, and reached out with one of his hands to stroke gently through my hair. "God, are you sure?"
Fuck no. I wasn't sure. But I wanted it too badly to care. I held my breath, and blinked, and nodded. Yes, yes, now.
Now.
He reached over me to dig though the drawer in his bedside table until he found lube and a packet of condoms. And then he was sliding the stuff over his fingers and pressing into me. The index at first. Just a tease. Then the middle, and a slight burn. Then the ring finger, and -- God -- I hadn't expected it to hurt like this. I hadn't expected to want it this badly. All of it. Even the burn and stretch. Everything. Randy. Fuck.
I didn't think I could handle it. I put a hand against his wrist to stop his motions. He froze in place, his body perfectly still, on edge, his cock hard, heavy between us. I could see the outline of it. The soft drip of moisture at the tip of it. I pictured it inside me, pushing in, breaking me into tiny shuddering pieces.
I slid my hand up his wrist, past his elbow, over his shoulder to cup his chin. "Kiss me," I whispered, pushing my fingers up into his hair. A 'please' hung in the air after the statement, unspoken. And he did, pouring his breath into my mouth, and it was good again. I was good. "Don't stop," I groaned around his tongue, and he didn't.
And then the fingers were gone, replaced by him. A barely noticeable press of latex covered skin against my hole, though I couldn’t remember him putting on the condom. The pressure built up into a thrust. And screw anyone who says that an ass isn't designed to be fucked, because for once I honestly couldn't think of a better reason for having one. "Are you okay?" he asked. And again, "Are you okay?"
"Yes," I said, Randy's cock sliding into me with hard, slow strokes, finding some hidden cluster of nerves and, just, manipulating me with it. Moaning. Incoherent. "Yes," I repeated, over and over until I was screaming it, until he was shaking over me, until it was all over for the both of us.
I didn't even notice him jerking me off until he unwrapped his fingers from around my dick to idly wipe at the mess of come against his stomach.
"Are you okay?"
"Stop asking me that."
It wasn’t until he began to withdraw from my body that it really hit me. I’d just been fucked. I'd just been fucked.
Oh, Christ. What did that even mean?
I fled to the other end of the bed, a good three feet from Randy. I looked up to find him watching me, his legs bent in a crooked sprawl, his hands wringing in his lap. He was calling my name.
I was...not processing.
"Gale, don’t freak out on me," he pleaded, inching towards me. "Gale, please." Another foot closer. "Gale," and he was sitting in front of me, throwing his legs into a straddle around me.
What the hell had just happened? I had practically begged him to fuck me. Jesus, I'd wanted it so badly I didn't recognize myself.
"Gale."
He rested his hands on my shoulders, and I realized that I was shivering. He rubbed my arms gently, waiting for my shaking to stop. And then he leaned forward to press his forehead against mine. He whispered my name again, this time as a question.
I didn’t trust myself to say anything. So I kissed him instead. It was rough and careless, more teeth than tongue, and desperate enough to leave us both panting. It was enough. He understood. He always did, somehow.
He threw himself back against the sheets, drew up his knees around me and then lay still. He was letting me lead. This time, at least.
I remembered the first sex scene we did together. We didn’t want any surprises during filming, so we explained all our erogenous zones to each other in detail. I memorized his by rote, like learning my times tables. Eventually that knowledge became instinctual. My hands knew what places to avoid. There were times I touched on forbidden territory, when the directors asked for a bit more intensity. But I knew exactly how far to push without crossing any lines.
Here there weren't any lines to cross.
I started off like I did when we were being filmed. I ran my hands over his torso, smoothing over his skin, then lightly scraping the edge of my nails against his nipples. Randy complained at the tease with a small whine in the back of his throat, and my motions turned harder. I dragged my palms roughly down his stomach, feeling the muscles jump and flex under my palms. I clenched my fingers around his hips, then bent over him to briefly explore his mouth, jumping slightly as my erection pushed along his and got harder with the unexpected friction. I mumbled something, and it could have been his name. My mouth bit at his ear, his throat, his neck, and I began to grind against him. I groaned when his body jerked in a sharp twitch.
His arms reaching over his head, grabbing blindly at the sheets. His hips shifted and his legs spread wide. Finding the lube in front of his pillows, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, tearing open a condom packet between his teeth. It wasn't until then that I really realized where all this was going. I mean, I'd known before, but I guess it had taken a while to hit home.
So I can be a bit thickheaded sometimes. That's not exactly new information.
I stopped moving, letting the knowledge sink in, blanking out for a moment. Randy looked up at me fearfully. "You’re not going to freeze up on me again, are you?"
I swear, he looked like he was about to weep in frustration.
I grinned and grabbed the condom he was holding to slide it onto my dick. I let him squeeze gel onto my fingers and guide my hand down, and down. I heard him whisper quiet instructions, his voice cracking as my knuckles breached the first ring of muscle. He arched under me, his throat stretching back like some exotic bird, poised to sing.
And then I was buried inside him, thrusting into that sweet ass, his legs wrapped viselike around me. The smooth head of his cock dragged over my stomach as his grasping hole pulled me closer and closer to the edge. I heard the raw groans that came out of his throat, heard my own hoarse moaning, felt my sanity shred, I...
Christ.
...I broke. Randy fucking broke me.
It was perfect.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of the phone ringing. I reached over awkwardly to grab it off the receiver. Michelle was on the other end, yelling. "Where are you? You were supposed to be in makeup half an hour ago."
"Michelle? Oh, what time is it? Damn, sorry, I'm still in bed. I was up late --"
And then I noticed Randy. Lying on the bed next to me. Naked. Gorgeous. Awake. He had that look on his face again.
"Gale?"
The one that says, 'Mrs. Harold, I don't know how to tell you this but --'
"Tell me you did not just answer my phone."
'your son is fucking retarded.'
Randy grabbed the phone out of my hand. "Michelle? Yeah, just...Gale's an idiot. Don't say anything to anybody. I'll be right there."
He hung up the phone and glared at me. Jesus, but he's hot when he's pissed. And, okay, no, this was bad. Shit. He was going to kill me.
"Gale, you idiot."
He started to laugh. The fucker started to laugh. He took a few minutes to wind down. I used the time to try to think of a plan to fix what I'd just done. Nothing came to me. I decided to avoid the issue.
"So I was thinking..."
Randy raised a brow at me.
"We should call in sick. Talk about stuff." Put off the inevitable. Stay in bed. Fuck all day.
He looked at me and smiled knowingly. I wondered if I was truly that transparent, or if Randy was just perceptive.
I lost that train of thought when he kissed me. Soft and open mouthed. And as he pulled back I felt strangely relieved. For once, I didn't have to remind myself that it was just acting. For once, Brian wasn't hanging over my head. This was all very real.
~Fin~
Sequel: It Went Like This
Like it? Comment on it. Pimp it to your friends.
Fandom: QaF RPS
Pairing: Gale/Randy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Gale has issues. Randy gets caught in the wake. And then much sex is had. Oh, the humanity.
A/N: I so need to get a life. Thanks to
misswindy, queenofalostart, and rhiannonhero for betaing. If only I had listened to you more. Notes to Self: rough draft; beta snark
So I was thinking about Randy naked, and it occurred to me that this wasn't exactly normal. At first I thought it was normal. After all, I see Randy naked all the time. But then I started thinking about Randy both naked and hard. And, okay, I also thought that was normal at first, because I see that too from time to time.
What really tipped me off that it wasn't normal was a conversation I had with Peter. It was one of those random conversations that jumps ten topics in five minutes. First we were talking about method acting, and then we shifted over to character psychology, and then we were discussing inkblots, and somehow we moved on to stream-of-consciousness.
I mean, I think it's kinda funny, but people don't really think about what they're thinking. They just think, you know? And it's a good thing I don't think out loud, because if I did, by the looks of that last sentence, I'd come off as a total dumbfuck. Which would be, like, bad. But anyway, when Peter mentioned it, I started to look back over the past five minutes of our conversation. Only about a quarter of my thoughts had actually been on the conversation.
And the rest of my thoughts? Well, first I'd been running through a few of my lines for the scene we were about to film. You know, I'm kind of jealous of Brian. He always has a good retort for everything. Even when he's high as a frickin’ kite. And then it wasn't my lines I was thinking about. It was Michelle, and that one episode where Lindsey found out Melanie had done nude photos. I mean, she's really gorgeous, but she doesn't have much in the bust department. Her tits are tiny. And tit is such a weird word. Especially when Brian says it. And then I started thinking that I hadn't been in a scene with Randy in a while. A sex scene, I mean. It made me a little sad, really, because I liked having scenes with Randy. He's a nice guy and a good actor and he looks great naked.
I remembered that first episode where I had my tongue about a two centimeters from his hole. I told an interviewer once that his ass had tasted a bit like cumin. I fucking love cumin. And I wondered what it felt like for him, because you know, when you're licking someone's ass a part of you wonders what it's like to be on the receiving end. I'd probably like having Randy's tongue in my ass, if it weren't for all the cameras. Or his fingers. Pushing inside. He's got really strong fingers, and sometimes I just stare at them for a bit and get distracted and...
And that's not exactly normal, is it?
Right. Didn't think so.
The thing I hate about epiphanies is that they always come at a bad time. Always. Here I was, in the middle of a conversation with Peter, and all of a sudden I was thinking, "Oh my God, I'm bi." And then it was, "Oh my God, I'm attracted to Randy." And then, "Oh crap, I just got a hard on thinking about him."
And did I mention I was in the middle of a conversation with Peter?
He started to look at me strangely. I realized that he'd been waiting for me to say something for about forty seconds. I gave him a nervous look, then got up and excused myself to the bathroom. I nearly walked into a chair on the way. Peter asked me if I was alright, and by the tone of his voice, I couldn't tell if he was more worried or amused. Probably the second one.
I didn't go to the bathroom to jerk off. I wasn't that turned on. Actually I was that turned on. I just wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't by denying myself the pleasure. Of course, I didn't prove anything, except that a bathroom isn't the best place to have an identity crisis. Not nearly enough pacing room. I returned to the set twenty minutes late, but thankfully, not sporting wood. I made my excuses, and then the cameramen started filming.
I managed to remember all my lines. I even managed to look properly bored as twink No. 4 got down on his knees and pretended to suck me off. I didn't see Randy until the end of the day, when everybody started to pack up and head home. He caught me on my way back to my trailer. He took one look at my face and asked me what was wrong.
At which point I started giggling uncontrollably.
Breaking points are a lot like epiphanies, come to think of it. At least when it comes to timing.
Randy's face does a number of things when he's worried. His forehead scrunches and his teeth chew at his lower lip. His eyes grow big with concern. All I want to do is pull him into a hug. Sometimes I'm awed that he can be so obvious with his concern. Sure, he cares about everyone on the cast, but I'm the only one he goes all kicked puppy for. It's...
Well, it's kind of weird. Good weird. But weird.
That look on his face was the last thing I wanted to see as I headed towards my trailer. He looked so vulnerable, and I just had to touch him. But I couldn't, because if I did, I'd pull him into my arms, press my nose against his neck, feel the not quite feminine softness of his shaved skin against my jaw. I'd be able to listen to his breath as I wrapped my arms around him. And hearing him, and feeling him, and smelling him were so, so close to tasting him that I wouldn't be able to stop myself from opening my mouth and dragging my tongue up towards his ear.
Only it was wrong. Because we weren't on the set, and this wasn't acting. This was Randy, with his bottom lip red and wet from worry, and his eyes very, very blue and fuck. Fuck. I was hard again.
Cue uncontrollable giggling.
After almost a minute of my hysterics, Randy started to get really scared. He grabbed my arm and told me to stop, but I couldn't. I just fucking couldn't. He pushed me up against my trailer door and shouted my name but all I could feel was the panic bubbling out of my throat. And then his face was close. Too close. And I was resting my palms on his shoulders, like I did the first time I kissed my first girlfriend. Only I couldn't remember her name, because I was too busy forgetting everything but lips and teeth and tongue and Randy.
A moment or two passed. Randy broke the kiss abruptly, yanking away with enough force to slam me back against the entrance to my trailer. I let my arms hang in the air for a moment, confused at the sudden loss of sensation. It took me several seconds to reorganize my thoughts. Kissing Randy, I discovered, doesn't exactly lend itself to rational thought. By the time I was thinking clearly again, Randy was a good four feet away.
He exhaled heavily though his nose and stared into my face, his eyes dark and angry. "Gale, what the fuck was that?"
Good question.
I opened and closed my mouth a few times before finally stuttering out, "I...don't know?"
Now obviously this was the wrong thing to say. Randy didn't even bother to reply. He just glared at me. The look on his face reminded me of my first grade teacher's expression that time she caught me eating Play-Doh. In fact, I could almost hear her voice in my head saying, "I don't know how to tell you this Mrs. Harold, but your son is retarded."
Man, I hated her.
But where was I? Randy. Glaring at me. For being an idiot. I stared back at him helplessly, until finally his face took on a patient expression. "Gale, it's clear to me you've had a very trying day. So here's what we're going to do. First you're going to let us into your trailer. Then you're going to get us two beers out of your mini fridge. Then you're going to tell me why you seem to have lost your mind."
I took a moment to weight the pros and cons of the situation. On the one hand, I wasn't really ready to discuss my identity crisis. On the other hand, I was fairly sure if I didn't follow Randy's instructions -- to the letter -- he was going to queen out and never speak to me again. Or kill me. I wasn't sure which was worse.
Realizing I didn't have a choice in the matter, I led him into the trailer. Randy followed behind me, almost close enough to touch. He waited as I retrieved two bottles of Canadian beer from my fridge. He grabbed his bottle from my hand without our usual brush of fingers. I stared at his hands for a moment, missing the familiar touch.
I never really thought that he had artist's hands. He doesn't have long, graceful fingers. Not like mine, anyway. I probably would have made a good piano player. I -- oh, right. I was supposed to be explaining myself to Randy. Not pondering the shape of his thumbs and indexes. Maybe I really had lost my mind.
I started to feel antsy, and finally set down my drink and shoved my hands in my pockets to regain some control of the situation. Randy waited impatiently for me to start speaking. I decided to be as evasive as possible.
"I realized something about myself today," I began. "It left me somewhat unsettled. I didn't mean to take it out on you like that. I'm sorry."
"Gale, you shoved your tongue into my mouth. You're going to have to do better than that."
Apparently he wasn't going to make this easy on me. I decided to try another dodge.
"I shove my tongue in your mouth all the time," I said, matter of factly.
"No, Brian shoves his tongue in Justin's mouth. That's acting, Gale."
"I just. I can't talk about this right now, okay? Let's just forget it happened."
Randy stared hard at me for many long seconds. Then all of a sudden, his face went blank. "Sure," he said, his voice hollow. "Lets do that." He turned on his heel and left, beer in hand, shutting the door softly but firmly behind him.
This was not how it was supposed to go. Randy was supposed to laugh the whole thing off. Randy was supposed to have some fucking pity on me. At the very least, he was supposed to queen out and scream at me, so I'd at least have some warning that he was about to leave me. And fuck, what if he never came back? What if I went to work the next day and he just looked through me instead of at me? Suddenly all the panic I thought I'd left behind in the men's room came flying back.
Randy couldn't have just left. How was I supposed to deal with that?
I mean, first of all, what the fuck would I do with my hands if he stopped letting me stalk him around the set? I've always been a very tactile person. Randy's never seemed to mind. I've always been able to just go up to him and ruffle his hair, or throw an arm over his shoulder, or stretch my legs out under a table so my ankles knock his. I've always been able to grab him by the wrist or the elbow and drag him places. I know his skin so well I can find all his pulse points with my eyes closed. That probably should have clued me into the fact that I'm attracted to him, but hey. Can't blame me for being a bit slow on the uptake.
But God, he grabbed a beer bottle out of my hand without brushing our fingers together and I missed it. I fucking missed it, like a drug addict without a fix. I was about ten seconds away from going into serious withdrawl. Hal was going to walk in and find me shaking and drooling on the floor.
Uh, yeah.
Apparently Randy wasn't the only one capable of queening out.
Randy didn't speak to me for a week. Any conversations I started he quickly cut short. I stared at him from a distance, as much as I dared. People noticed that we weren't around each other as much. No one made a big deal of it.
I started jerking off with more and more frequency, until finally I'd exhausted all the porn in my apartment. I considered going shopping for more, but decided that naked women weren't really what I wanted at the moment. I considered popping in a DVD from last season, but decided that watching Randy and me pretend to fuck would only make matters worse.
I stopped jerking off, and decided to devote all my energies to catching Randy alone. It took a day or two. Finally I managed to corner him during his lunch break and ask, "Randy, can't we just be friends again?"
He closed his eyes and sighed. Finally he murmured, "Yes. Yes, we can be friends again."
He had never looked so defeated.
It was different, after that. I began to realize that being friends again was not the same as going back to the way things were. And I'd like to say that I was willing to take what I could get, but I wasn't. This wasn't what I wanted. This wasn't the Randy I knew. The one who dragged out conversations just because he liked to hear himself talk. The one who didn't notice when I hummed old 80's songs in his presence, but complained later when they were stuck in his head. The one who plopped down next to me on a couch, just close enough for our thighs to touch, and asked me what I'd done over the weekend.
Over the years I had become so comfortable with Randy that being without him had seemed like a discomfort in comparison. This sudden estrangement between us felt almost like torture. I didn't want to consider the possibility that I'd never have that kind of comfort again. Instead I concentrated on a more pressing matter. Namely, that I had fallen madly in love with Randy and somehow failed to notice.
Epiphanies suck ass.
The whole misery thing wasn't working for me. So I decided to tell Randy the truth. It seemed like a good plan. Of course, it took me a week to get over my shivering cowardice and actually go through with it.
I showed up at his apartment one evening after work. I knocked three times before he drowsily answered his door in just boxers and a white tee. "Gale, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you." It sounded like a good starting line.
"Come in," he said finally, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. He opened the door, then padded his way to the couch, turning down the volume on his tv. I sat down next to him. He scooted across the seat cushion, moving in just close enough for our thighs to touch.
And then it was easy. "I'm attracted to you," I began. "I'm very, very attracted to you. And that's why I kissed you."
Randy stiffened, but didn't move away. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I was too chickenshit before."
"You were too scared to tell me, but you weren't too scared to kiss me?"
"Well, that was different," I explained. "I wasn't really thinking."
"You weren't thinking," he echoed, disbelievingly. Annoyance quickly shifted to anger, and he snapped -- "What the hell does that mean?"
Jesus, he's hot when he's angry.
"It means I wasn't thinking, okay? I was kind of in the middle of an identiy crisis."
"Oh. So your attraction to me is some weird manifestation of an identity crisis," he responded, using a tone better equipped for humoring small children.
Fine, Randy. Mock my pain.
"No, actually."
"Gale, you're not even gay."
"Uhm, no. I'm bi."
"You're -- what? What? Since when?"
"Since always, I guess. Didn't really notice until two weeks ago."
"Two weeks ago when you kissed me."
"Yeah. That. Look, just hear me out. I didn't mean to make it seem like I was using you or anything. I just really, really had to kiss you. And I'm sorry if I ruined our friendship, but -- God -- is there any chance you feel the same way?"
My mind was screaming, 'please don't hurt me,' and I think I may have been visibly cringing waiting for his answer. He didn't say anything at first. He just stared at me like he was trying to crawl inside my brain. And then he was holding my face in his hands and curling his teeth over my lips and, sucking my tongue into his mouth and God. Yes.
Thankyou.
Randy kissed as if he were trying to swallow me whole. I remember his fingers twisting in my hair, his eyes dark and dilated, his mouth wide and grinning against my lips. He dragged me from the couch to his room. My shoes and socks came off somewhere along his hallway. He pushed me down onto his bed, hands on my shoulders, and held me against the sheets. His stomach was tense. I couuld see the soft skin stretched over a hard line of clenched muscle. His body was surrounded by the dim light filtering in from the entryway through the open bedroom door -- a shadow lined in white. My hands slid up under his boxers, gripping his thighs.
"Careful," he whispered against my mouth. "You know I bruise easily."
He unbuttoned my shirt, quickly and efficiently. He then dove down, teeth scraping against my nipples until I arched up against him, my voice caught somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Never this loud on the show. Never like this. God, I was so hard I could feel it in my toes. I wanted his tongue in my mouth, down my chest, wrapped around my dick, anywhere. I wanted his dick pressed against my stomach, the taste of it in my mouth, the feel of it sliding into me. I wanted him to --
"Fuck me," I gasped as he unbuckled my pants and slid them off my hips. "Christ, Randy, just --"
"Gale, shut the fuck up or I'm going to come right now," he growled, jumping off me to remove his own clothing. Once he’d finished, he crouched over me again, and reached out with one of his hands to stroke gently through my hair. "God, are you sure?"
Fuck no. I wasn't sure. But I wanted it too badly to care. I held my breath, and blinked, and nodded. Yes, yes, now.
Now.
He reached over me to dig though the drawer in his bedside table until he found lube and a packet of condoms. And then he was sliding the stuff over his fingers and pressing into me. The index at first. Just a tease. Then the middle, and a slight burn. Then the ring finger, and -- God -- I hadn't expected it to hurt like this. I hadn't expected to want it this badly. All of it. Even the burn and stretch. Everything. Randy. Fuck.
I didn't think I could handle it. I put a hand against his wrist to stop his motions. He froze in place, his body perfectly still, on edge, his cock hard, heavy between us. I could see the outline of it. The soft drip of moisture at the tip of it. I pictured it inside me, pushing in, breaking me into tiny shuddering pieces.
I slid my hand up his wrist, past his elbow, over his shoulder to cup his chin. "Kiss me," I whispered, pushing my fingers up into his hair. A 'please' hung in the air after the statement, unspoken. And he did, pouring his breath into my mouth, and it was good again. I was good. "Don't stop," I groaned around his tongue, and he didn't.
And then the fingers were gone, replaced by him. A barely noticeable press of latex covered skin against my hole, though I couldn’t remember him putting on the condom. The pressure built up into a thrust. And screw anyone who says that an ass isn't designed to be fucked, because for once I honestly couldn't think of a better reason for having one. "Are you okay?" he asked. And again, "Are you okay?"
"Yes," I said, Randy's cock sliding into me with hard, slow strokes, finding some hidden cluster of nerves and, just, manipulating me with it. Moaning. Incoherent. "Yes," I repeated, over and over until I was screaming it, until he was shaking over me, until it was all over for the both of us.
I didn't even notice him jerking me off until he unwrapped his fingers from around my dick to idly wipe at the mess of come against his stomach.
"Are you okay?"
"Stop asking me that."
It wasn’t until he began to withdraw from my body that it really hit me. I’d just been fucked. I'd just been fucked.
Oh, Christ. What did that even mean?
I fled to the other end of the bed, a good three feet from Randy. I looked up to find him watching me, his legs bent in a crooked sprawl, his hands wringing in his lap. He was calling my name.
I was...not processing.
"Gale, don’t freak out on me," he pleaded, inching towards me. "Gale, please." Another foot closer. "Gale," and he was sitting in front of me, throwing his legs into a straddle around me.
What the hell had just happened? I had practically begged him to fuck me. Jesus, I'd wanted it so badly I didn't recognize myself.
"Gale."
He rested his hands on my shoulders, and I realized that I was shivering. He rubbed my arms gently, waiting for my shaking to stop. And then he leaned forward to press his forehead against mine. He whispered my name again, this time as a question.
I didn’t trust myself to say anything. So I kissed him instead. It was rough and careless, more teeth than tongue, and desperate enough to leave us both panting. It was enough. He understood. He always did, somehow.
He threw himself back against the sheets, drew up his knees around me and then lay still. He was letting me lead. This time, at least.
I remembered the first sex scene we did together. We didn’t want any surprises during filming, so we explained all our erogenous zones to each other in detail. I memorized his by rote, like learning my times tables. Eventually that knowledge became instinctual. My hands knew what places to avoid. There were times I touched on forbidden territory, when the directors asked for a bit more intensity. But I knew exactly how far to push without crossing any lines.
Here there weren't any lines to cross.
I started off like I did when we were being filmed. I ran my hands over his torso, smoothing over his skin, then lightly scraping the edge of my nails against his nipples. Randy complained at the tease with a small whine in the back of his throat, and my motions turned harder. I dragged my palms roughly down his stomach, feeling the muscles jump and flex under my palms. I clenched my fingers around his hips, then bent over him to briefly explore his mouth, jumping slightly as my erection pushed along his and got harder with the unexpected friction. I mumbled something, and it could have been his name. My mouth bit at his ear, his throat, his neck, and I began to grind against him. I groaned when his body jerked in a sharp twitch.
His arms reaching over his head, grabbing blindly at the sheets. His hips shifted and his legs spread wide. Finding the lube in front of his pillows, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, tearing open a condom packet between his teeth. It wasn't until then that I really realized where all this was going. I mean, I'd known before, but I guess it had taken a while to hit home.
So I can be a bit thickheaded sometimes. That's not exactly new information.
I stopped moving, letting the knowledge sink in, blanking out for a moment. Randy looked up at me fearfully. "You’re not going to freeze up on me again, are you?"
I swear, he looked like he was about to weep in frustration.
I grinned and grabbed the condom he was holding to slide it onto my dick. I let him squeeze gel onto my fingers and guide my hand down, and down. I heard him whisper quiet instructions, his voice cracking as my knuckles breached the first ring of muscle. He arched under me, his throat stretching back like some exotic bird, poised to sing.
And then I was buried inside him, thrusting into that sweet ass, his legs wrapped viselike around me. The smooth head of his cock dragged over my stomach as his grasping hole pulled me closer and closer to the edge. I heard the raw groans that came out of his throat, heard my own hoarse moaning, felt my sanity shred, I...
Christ.
...I broke. Randy fucking broke me.
It was perfect.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of the phone ringing. I reached over awkwardly to grab it off the receiver. Michelle was on the other end, yelling. "Where are you? You were supposed to be in makeup half an hour ago."
"Michelle? Oh, what time is it? Damn, sorry, I'm still in bed. I was up late --"
And then I noticed Randy. Lying on the bed next to me. Naked. Gorgeous. Awake. He had that look on his face again.
"Gale?"
The one that says, 'Mrs. Harold, I don't know how to tell you this but --'
"Tell me you did not just answer my phone."
'your son is fucking retarded.'
Randy grabbed the phone out of my hand. "Michelle? Yeah, just...Gale's an idiot. Don't say anything to anybody. I'll be right there."
He hung up the phone and glared at me. Jesus, but he's hot when he's pissed. And, okay, no, this was bad. Shit. He was going to kill me.
"Gale, you idiot."
He started to laugh. The fucker started to laugh. He took a few minutes to wind down. I used the time to try to think of a plan to fix what I'd just done. Nothing came to me. I decided to avoid the issue.
"So I was thinking..."
Randy raised a brow at me.
"We should call in sick. Talk about stuff." Put off the inevitable. Stay in bed. Fuck all day.
He looked at me and smiled knowingly. I wondered if I was truly that transparent, or if Randy was just perceptive.
I lost that train of thought when he kissed me. Soft and open mouthed. And as he pulled back I felt strangely relieved. For once, I didn't have to remind myself that it was just acting. For once, Brian wasn't hanging over my head. This was all very real.
Sequel: It Went Like This
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