Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 : Ceremonial

After repetitious experience over the past two decades, walking down the red carpet is starting to feel less terrifying. Though self-consciousness awaits at the end of the lane, where he finally exhales the grudged breath in the back of his throat and his heartbeat starts to return usual, with a hint of criticism on why it throbbed in the first place.

Steve taps the back of his shoes twice and steps into the vast building. It’s a ritual before entering the real arena among his peer. With a drink in hand, Steve walks to a less crowded side of the long bar.

This is another side of showbiz outsiders wouldn’t know; dreams happen here. In the space below contrast lights and hemmed by walls entrapping slow, deep thumps of music, in sync with the one within their flesh. It’s a place where everyone takes something from someone else, be it an anecdote or a pitch for a new film, a well-timed joke or a subtle diss, both being masked in fake laughter. A common rule is; where words flow, body language keeps its course.

He runs one hand to sweep his hair. Thin, silver fringes fall back upon his forehead as his hands fall to the sides of his trousers. His tongue curls at another sip of martini, it’s been a while since his last. Steve scoffs lowly, picturing himself in a suit and a martini, it would’ve been perfect if only-

“Come, come, Mr Bond,” a familiar voice calls behind him.

As a grin stretches on his lips, his cheeks remember warmth again. The same fuzz fills his body and emits his eyes. In a brisk, Steve turns his back.

“Come, come, Mr Bond,” Steve replies. His tone starts to fumble towards the end from incoming laughter. He chooses to reply with a lame movie line, and for that, he’s chosen his course.

Publicity can wait. Besides, there’s never any certainty how long it’d last. For all he knows, this moment is clearer to picture. For all he keeps within, the whole world can wait.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 : Helpless

It’s the first day of their trip to Italy. After flying from London to Rome, the two get on a ferry to Camogli.

They settle in the lounge's armchairs, the only less crowded space in the entire ferry. Rob has his hands and eyes on a newspaper and Steve’s on his phone. A song resonates softly in the room. Steve recognizes it being John Mayer’s, though there’s no point of bringing it up since Rob wouldn’t have known. The man is stuck in the 70s, with a genre confined to one or two musicians.

“If I’m helpless, tell me know,
and I’ll stop trying to figure it out.”

After two cups of coffee, they leave to find their suite. As professionals on a work trip, the two didn’t bother with an ounce of admission and now have to hold their complaints about sharing a room. Rob could’ve said Steve might get rowdy with a steward tonight and that ferries aren’t known for their walls, but then he'd prove his bother. Steve could’ve said Rob always places everything everywhere as if they were oblivious marks, but then he’d prove his experience. At the end, they avoid the subject.

Still, they aren’t sharing everything. Bedrooms and else are separate, except bathroom and TV.

That’s why Steve hesitates to utter his sickness, while everything is swaying in his axis. There’s a reason why he prefers planes over cruises. His eyes sway over his laptop, complete with its absent paragraphs. His head sways all around in circles and his stomach is starting to stir deep.

With a gust of “Oh god,” Steve stumbles his way to the bathroom. His fingers clutch to both sides of the sink, seconds before a sudden current runs up his throat. In the midst of dizziness, Steve hears a distant call of his name and thumps of nearing footsteps. Rob peers through the slightly opened door to the bathroom mirror and the reflection of Steve’s back, hunched over the sink.

After his groan and whimpers cease, Rob asks, “Feeling better?”

Steve shakes his head. He squints and slowly lifts his eyelids. He stares at the mirror where his face has lost all colors, and there's Rob's small face over his shoulder too. In reply, Rob gives him a half smile. Else than dizziness, his thoughts surround Rob’s reply to his pathetic. The shame doesn’t twist his mind as much as how furrowed Rob’s brows are and how his words fall tenderly, rather than a sigh and snipping at his choice of sink instead of the toilet.

“I’ll take some Dramamine, though I doubt it’ll go into effect fast enough. You-“ Rob says, pausing his second step for the last remark, “-can do a bit of that, but take it easy, I’m not that reluctant of any.”

The man shuffles back to his room. Steve straightens his back and wipes unintentional tears at the corner of his eyes. Moment from seconds earlier festers, stored for another time’s musing when seasickness isn’t devouring him. It’ll be an hour of wondering how Rob Brydon, the man of various voices, halted for one second to rehearse his tone,

‘No need to sound judging nor demanding, you’re only saying subtly you don’t wanna touch his vomit. But if i do that, will he think I'd be a tad more willing if it had been from somewhere else? For all it is, I might think twice. Right, eagerness isn't good. Just be there, Rob.’

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 : Winning

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Steve groans. Rob turns to him with scrunched eyebrows.

“What?” Rob asks, his tone curving upwards.

“Not you, love. Hammond, our left.”

Instinctively, Rob turns his head, just in time for his glance to meet with Richard Hammond’s glare and the two jolt away. Rob widens his eyes dramatically and whistles the tune of a falling bomb, “He’s never really let that go, has he? What year was it, when you called him a tragic squirt?”

Steve snorts at the rolled, welsh U and R, “2011.”

At the same time, they're walking towards the backstage. The host is setting the scene and introduces the category they’ve dominated with 'The Trip to Spain'.

“It’s 2017! Bloody hell, six years of it,” Rob comments.

Followed up by the speakers blasting, “And the winner of Comedians of the Year, Rob Brydon and Steve Coogan, for the Trip to Spain!”

Applaud erupts in the room. Steve turns to Rob with a stretched grin, “Ah Rob, we’re just on series three.”

The stage manager waves his hand for them to walk on stage, with a last whisper in Rob’s ear,

“We’re not done yet, are we?”

-

They return to their table and a GQ trophy rests between them. After hand-shaking with people along the way, they get to congratulate and thank each other when they sit down. Entangled fingers linger longer, hidden behind their angled knees.

“It was a cracking trip, wasn’t it, lads?” A voice suddenly calls and the clasp of their hands brisks away. Steve turns his head to Richard, standing behind them. Rob nudges his knee and Steve lightens his frown a bit.

“So was your ride with Clarkson.”

“Don’t lower yourself, Coogan.”

Swiftly, Jeremy joins Richard side, merely to tug him away in supposed subtlety.

“Congratulations, you two.” He beams a smile and they walk away.

After they’re far enough and the cameras move on, Rob leans closer to speak above the noise, “As much as I want to celebrate, I don’t think we should drink.”

Steve loses his tempo in fiddling his phone and it falls with a thud,

“What? Go clean?”

“No, no, no.” Rob shakes his head and squints his eyes to picture the rows of free champagne, “By drinking, I mean getting hammered.”

Steve's eyes wander around in thought. First of all, no one plans for getting drunk. Second, he doesn't like the idea of someone looking through him. But Rob's done this several times, that he might've paved a lane of his own by now. Steve lets it be, as long as he doesn't have to put it into words. Other noises are excluded.

“I know,” Steve says, resting his chin on his hand.

“I know you know,” Rob retorts, returning to his former position before the interruption, close enough to Steve’s ears and for his breath to land on the skin under Steve’s unbuttoned collar. Close enough for myopia to disappear into brown headlights, lighting the way to his own.

“But you’re too stubborn for your own knowledge. Promise me by hand instead.”

Steve tries to fold his lips, but it effortlessly breaks into a giggle, “Even if I did get hammered, I’d still beat the shit out of Hammond."

Pride is hinted all over his tone and his head bobs upwards, "Hammond’s the good school boy. I fought in real streets with proper bullies. Bloody hell, he’s shorter than you.”

“Yet I got ahead of you.”
“But you think I’d still win, right?”
“You can tower over Hammond, but you can’t tower over Clarkson.”

Steve nods slowly, a little bit annoyed but he agrees, “Imagine tomorrow morning’s headline, Clacking Clarkson."

He expects Rob to slip into a version of Michael Parkinson with an uncanny, hoarse voice and witty words of "Funnyman Steve Coogan left unconscious at Jeremy Clarkson's feet" or something as simple as "You'll get in the first page, but in a whole different shadow."

Instead, he’s greeted by dim, low-inclined eyes and lips drawn between teeth. As Steve’s eyes dig deeper, Rob realizes and their gazes meet halfway.

“You know, I can still beat him up sober.”

Though softly, Steve can hear his low chuckle. Spending years with the man, he’s developed a bundle of idiosyncrasies and this one is straight from the half-hearted sections, hurt even. Rob would never admit to it. Nevertheless, when Steve slips his arm behind to rest on the rim of Rob’s chair and his fingers drum and draw on his shoulder, Rob leans in and his posture eases.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4 : ITALY

“I’ve been wondering,” Rob says, while his tongue holds food to the sides of his mouth, “Why do we always drive for our trips?”

Steve places his cutlery and rests his hands together in a clasp, “Well, how else would we travel?”

“Train, plane, ferry,” Rob says, then a pause, “Hitchhiking.”

Steve’s forehead crinkles, “It’d be a bit tricky. Most of the places we’re visiting are in solitude countryside.”

He wonders why Rob had wondered about such things. But that’s another give-away to what kind of people they are, Steve would’ve rented a Range Rover, while Rob chose a Mini Cooper. At least it was convertible, so he can drive with its roof down and pretend they are under different circumstances of life.

“And I like driving, you know that,” Steve mutters.

Rob nods his head and takes another bite, “Why do you never bring your sport car along?”

“In our previous trip?” Steve scratches his cheek, “I can’t bring an Aston Martin up Northern England on earthly roads.”

Meanwhile, questions tug the insides of Rob’s chest and these ones are just setting the scene, it’s not what he wants to know. Rob tries his best to strain his face expressionless, though a bad habit stands at fault; he can never look to the other’s eyes. He has no knowledge of cars whatsoever, the exact opposite of Steve and his row of classic mementos. It shouldn’t be a problem, but the contrast has rooted deep in Rob’s bother now.

“What’s with you and cars all of a sudden?”

“I stumbled upon a Top Gear episode last night.“

“Top Gear?” Steve thinks, “He doesn’t like that sort of thing, does he?”

“Alan Davies’ actually.”

“Oh.”

Instantly, Steve pieces it all together. Rob still thinks he’s one step ahead by subtlety.

Laughter jolts inside his gut, but Steve manages to press his lips together. Rob’s a frequent QI guest and Steve has known Alan personally (work-wise, to be precise) back in the 90s. That includes one night they shared, though Steve never includes it in his list of anecdotes for its mundanity. Now, the same matter is busying Rob.

“Right, what was he on about?” Steve asks. His precision in acting cracks as Rob winces.

“He told a story where he was going to a festival in his early years of comedy,” Rob says, his voice getting sloppier in each word, “He mentioned you actually.”

“Really?” Steve rests one side of his face on his palm, the other moving as his teeth grinds his meal.

“After the festival, you offered him a ride back and sped down the motorway to race other comedians’ van.”

“I did. Yeah, I remember that, lovely, lovely as ever-” Steve says, glazing his eyes in purpose. Now Rob doesn’t bother making his frown less evident.

“I’m talking about Mazda MX-5, the car I used then.”

Steve gradually breaks into small giggles as Rob’s expression turns into a mixture of everything; confusion, surprise, and reluctance.

“You’re purposely winding me off, aren’t you?” Rob says with Welshness all loose, which successfully trips Steve into a full fit. Regret comes late as Rob realizes what he had said.

"For no reason at all," he adds.

“I legitimately, in the face of our executives and the whole nation, manifest in spending a week away with you every year. And you’re talking about one night, what, ten years ago?”

Rob lifts his hands in a half-hearted surrender. The other half craves even more; more answers, relief, and assurance.

“Did you - have a night with Alan?”

Rob's nonchalance catches Steve off-guard and words tie up. To distract him further, Steve keeps recognizing the scene as life imitating art. Rob’s grandiose acting is washing all over his face and tight knuckles. It might grow worse, now that Steve is blank and silent.

Rob’s head starts turning alarms one by one. He damns himself for doing all abomination necessary to ruin their trip, whatever-is-going-on between them, and lastly, his own heart.

On the other side, Steve hasn’t been able to click why tension is weighing the air. The courage to admit assumptions about himself, Rob included, is stored somewhere inside, along with the fondness Rob brings and how he can easily leave Steve warmer than red wine would ever do.

Leave. That’s the key word to where they all hide. One of them always leaves. But since they step away from London’s soil, Steve hasn’t fretted about it. He doesn’t get to think about anything else when Rob’s around.

“No, I didn’t, Rob,” Steve finally answers, “He has a wife, girlfriend then.”

The previous fun has returned to Steve’s face now, while Rob’s still moody and dark. Steve often jokes about it being part of his genes, but today, he knows he’s guilty.

“Oh don’t be mad, love,” Steve laughs, “You don’t seem to be enjoying the lobster now.”

“You don’t ever think, do you?” Rob replies, though less stern, he’s yet returned – stable would be too much, “Calling names, posing in our photos.”

“Would you want me to think?”

Rob tilts his head low and raises an eyebrow. Just as he would in the panel show he hosts, Steve notices, when the bloke he does the show with makes an innuendo. Steve can’t remember his name, but he knows he has carried Rob on his back as Rob clutches to his neck. That’s another time’s revenge noted.

“I’m thinking,” Steve starts. His lips seem to lock itself. But when Rob looks up from the platter, to his eyes, which Rob had just bantered yesterday how muddy they were, not one looked away first. It slicks thoughts off his brain,

“-to take you out tonight in Italy’s downtown. Would you come with me?” 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5 : CARESS

Thoughts float in their foggy heads. Alcohol in their veins isn’t as impactful as a ten-years-worth of heart and mind intoxication. Each other’s presence, that is.

A decade isn’t a short time and they’re never on the same course. Steve had a better head start in the industry than Rob, yet when Rob was on a high-rise, Steve was stuck and scattered on the grounds of his own mind. Nevertheless, they always found their way to each other.

The Trip to Italy finished filming today. As they’ve done for the last four months, the two dawn their dinner in the hotel bar, a table in the outskirts of the terrace. Usually, when they’re finished, they chatter about which part of the crew they managed to tick off today or who they’re going to impersonate tomorrow.

But there won’t be tomorrow. There won’t be a short, bed-headed, groggy Welshman in pajamas, sitting with a sharp-eyed, caffeine-driven English, with one strand of curled hair at the back of his head he missed while combing. There won’t be long rides and taking the piss out of Steve with his limited vocal range. There won’t be a better time than filming something out of their best reveries.

“The last supper, huh?” Rob asks.
“You know how it goes, bread and wine,” Steve replies, “We’re missing one.”

With a glass of white wine in hand, the two look down on the bay of Naples, rolling waves, and warm, yellow downtown lights.

“I’ve got to be honest,” Rob starts, “Nothing is more consistently enjoyable than doing this show.”

He turns to Steve and the two find themselves facing each other,

“It’s the best job in the world.”

The words fall out not louder than a sigh. Out of luck, Rob feels control washing off his brain. He grips his fingers around the railing as cold sweat runs down. His chest starts to ache; a level further than skipping beats and throbbing deep. At this point, anything Steve replies would be vain. They’ve spoken to each other enough to build up six hours of nonchalant comments and comedic timing. When the camera is off and there’s no fiction nor character to hide behind, words fail.

Little did he know, the other shares this consciousness. Steve steps nearer and lowers his head to make up for the height difference.

Their first caress, after a decade of pursuit, is merely a graze on the surface. It lingers, but weak, not of tenderness, but fear. Fear of broken commitments in their respective careers and joined projects, fear of unresolved tensions and not knowing what to say after the word “Action!”

But there won’t be tomorrow. That makes this moment all it is.

When no one stops after the first three seconds, they know they’re safe. Even better, when Steve tilts his head, Rob takes it as a hint to part, so he bites Steve’s bottom lip and holds his shoulders. They fall into another caress.

Eventually, they break away. Steve presses his forehead to Rob’s and they laugh lowly.

“You utter, utter bastard,” Rob says, his tone matching his giggles.

What happens next is history; the sweetest relic they’d gift each other and human remains, lasting as long as one of them hasn’t killed the other first.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6 : PIECES

Words clash inside his mind and his throat strains. In the split second between arriving and seeing him leave, they fall.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Honesty and fragility isn’t identical. One is rarer to be found in Steve’s nature. But as Steve lifts his head, they speak more than words could ever do; the dark folds under his eyes, red knuckles and a pale face, and a dressing gown dipped in cigarettes and alcohol.

Rob keeps denying the picture, as if his judgement about who Steve is makes up to define the situation. Instead, it is a fuzz of hope and faith, which might be the only light they have right now.

“I’m not scared of you,” Rob repeats.

Steve shrugs his shoulder. It comes out more as an odd jolt down his neck. The move is such a recurrent habit Rob already recognizes as Steve’s effort to ‘shrug’ things off. Success is never guaranteed.

“Let me stay-”

Even Rob’s fixed heart starts to fail his mind when each spaced word makes him gasp for air.

“-and you don’t have to listen to yourself.”

As the sentence goes out, Steve’s head gets lower and his curled fingers start to tremble. In another time, Rob would’ve held him and gathered scattered pieces. He would’ve right now. He’s dying to. But Steve keeps his stance on the doorstep. Over his shoulders, Rob can see the familiar hall and stairs, bet he could walk blindfolded to the living room couch. Those memories seem so distant and today feels so cold.

“We’ll turn the lights on, change the brandy to tea, maybe accompany me to the papers guy down the road, yeah?”

Steve wipes one eye from brimming tears, just for the other to spill evident drops. His jaw clenches and his voice breaks from a whisper to a whimper,

“Why?”
“I don’t need a reason.”

Even when the reply comes spontaneous, sincerity loads Rob’s gaze. The reflection in his eyes is his reason.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7 : RUN

Steve comes running. Timing isn't merciful. A moment and what it carries can escape very quickly and Steve doesn’t want to be left behind. Now, it’s slightly more worrying that he might be the one leaving somewhere he wants to stay. Anchors seem useless now, when the waves are rolling high and he had spent nights before praying for a storm.

Though, ignorance should be in blame. He didn’t pray out of nowhere for rain and thunder. In the middle of everything, he just wanted to reach ashore. Secondly, panic should be in blame. In desperateness, no one can think clearly. With roaring nature, Steve couldn’t hear the leading whisper in his ear, where the other has always rested so close.

If only he had realized earlier, it would’ve taken only a one-hour car ride from Essex to London and a driving ticket. But now, in an unfamiliar country and a stupidly on-and-off satnav, Steve races off the hotel.

24 hours ago, it was the last evening of their trip in Spain and it had just started to feel like holiday. After two cups of lemonade and musing (quarreling) about which part of history they should put into their article (forcing knowledge to Rob’s careless, zoned-out head), Steve decides to tell Rob he wasn't coming back to England. He’s going to stay in Spain and finish his writings.

Rob, having a filter for his words but not a mask for his gestures, nodded. They said their goodbyes. It was just another pinch of heart for Steve after many, now that he realizes goodbye isn't one of their habits. They always return to London together and end their trip with plans to discuss writing or studio photo sessions. In that case, it's not a goodbye, just a bloody good break for their patience towards each other. Even if they didn’t have any plans, one of them would send a message to proof the arguments they had weeks ago, during the road trip.

Now that he had spelled out the word ‘goodbye’, it feels too close to an end and too near of an apotheosis. Both means a gravitated rush is imminent. The lowest point he could imagine reaching is saying the words “It shouldn’t have gone this way.”

Speeding down roads with both hands on the steering wheel and a phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, Steve calls Emma,

“Hello?”

“Emma!” Steve calls, allocating plenty of adrenaline, “Cancel my cancellation ticket.”

“Ferry? You’re going home?”

As the question comes through, Steve swerves past other vehicles. Emma’s voice might’ve lost to the klaxons surrounding his car, but the last word lands right in a patch of his mind. Be it a picture of sleeping in on his couch and a buzzing TV, or grumbling from an early morning with tea and breakfast already waiting.

“Yes, I’ll take the ferry. When is it, again?”

“Last entrance is in twenty minutes,” Emma sighs, “Please stay alive. There’s lots of documents and publications for death.”

Steve lets out a low chuckle and a profanity woven subtly inside. Silence trails and he rather expects the obvious question is burning at the back of Emma’s head.

“Don’t tell Rob, will you?”

Emma hums in agreement. The two exchange quick thank you-s and the phone clicks shut.

After risky turns and awakened senses from two decades ago, he arrives at the port. After getting the car in, his legs are still melted to the pedals and Steve gives his pounding heart a few seconds of ease. Still, his pulse hasn’t slowed down yet with an unfinished agenda and unbearable anticipation.

Considering Rob, he wouldn’t be in the lounge. Drinks and music doesn’t have its magic without company. Steve's phone buzzes in the speedometer. Emma’s text pops at the top, along with numbers to their rooms. Finally, things get a bit easier. His destination is only one or the other.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8 : GENTLY

Drunk is either subjective, or not good enough of a summary. All they feel is tipsiness and runny words up their throat, which all of a sudden feel funny. Rob and Steve sink into hotel room armchairs, meddled by a table with two clean glasses and drained bottles of wine.

Rob glances to his right where Steve is resting his head back, he’s slurring the tone of an unfamiliar song.

"I don't know why nobody told you."

"Did you intentionally skip the hair on the sides while coloring?" Rob asks, "They're the only grey ones."

“I really don’t know what’s the problem with hair dye,” Steve answers, “Isn’t this more of a problem?”

He ducks down, showing the back of his head, "Is it starting to go?"

Rob's throat knots. "I never really wanted to say because I know how insecure you are," he starts, triggering a snort and a chuckle from the other man. The sound lightens his heavy, worried head.

"Sorry," Rob says, followed by coughing his throat clear, "I heckled your song. Never heard that one before."

"Seriously?"

Rob pinches his brows together, "No?"

"Tells a lot." Steve goes on humming melodies as Rob puts out arguments to defend himself. They pass through their heads. Mind making up the rest of instruments' playing, Steve's focus misses the other's thorough look of his profile.

Hastily, Rob has decided today's drunk decision. He reaches his hand out to a curl of hair behind Steve's ears. The song stops abruptly and they join into silence. Rob’s heart pounds faster and his breath shakes, but the words still fall clear enough to be remembered,

"We're getting old, aren't we?"

Steve opens his eyes and a shiver runs along his axis. Rob's fingers now rest on his scalp. For a while, they stay, be it of foolishness only one will regret, or patience for any response. But all Steve waves from his side are mixed hints. Their fallen faces could tell so much for its minimum.

So Rob snatches his hand back, yet it's seized by Steve. He purls his fingers in Rob's gaps. Inch by inch, Steve nears and makes up for the space they almost formed before.

"How to unfold your love."