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Chapter Text

Trevor never really joined the Cornley Drama Society. The society took him by force.

Annie gave him no less than nineteen days to sulk after Mitch ended their relationship before she showed up on his doorstep with a bag of chicken wings, a packet of ibuprofen, and a determined glint in her eye. He’d been rotting in his dorm room long enough that he’d gone a bit pale, and a stack of empty cigarette packs was steadily growing in the corner where the trash can had once been.

He opened the door, and she shoved a bottle of water into his hand.

“Shave your bloody face. You’re going out with me tonight.”

“Like fucking hell I am, Twilloil.”

She turned to him and grabbed his face. “You’re coming with me to the society meeting.”

Trevor recoiled. “No. No, absolutely not.”

“You need enrichment, Trevor. And the drama society needs a lighting and sound tech.”

“There must be someone else in this goddamn school who gives even an ounce of shit about theater, bother them.”

Annie’s face became grave. “Trust me, Trev, we’ve looked.”

Brilliant.

(..)

Chris looked him up and down.

“So you’re our saving grace, hm?” God, even his voice was polished. Fucking clipped vowels and all. Twat.

Chris’s eyes flicked over him once again, no doubt taking in the ripped jeans and general lack of self-respect, and Trevor could see the disapproval clear as day. Annie, lovely human that she is, set her shoulders and clapped Trevor on the arm.

“He’s studying sound design, and he’s sharp as a tack, Chris.”

Trevor snorted.

Chris stared at him for a long moment, and Trevor resisted the urge to squirm. His eyes weren’t necessarily cruel, but they definitely weren’t friendly. After a minute, though, he seemed to relax slightly.

“Welcome, Trevor,” he said, extending a hand. Trevor shook it. “The rest of the society will be here shortly. Annie, start talking him through the script, would you?”

A binder was shoved into his hands. He didn’t speak to Chris for the rest of the day, and for that he was grateful.

(..)

Chris’s headache had set in the moment he woke up, which was a bad sign. Usually his brow didn’t start to throb until a few hours before the house opened, when he looked over their set one final time and the true lack of preparation sunk in.

Opening night of Haversham had arrived at an unforgiving pace. The rehearsal room had always been loud, but more often than not in the last few weeks Chris had found himself shouting over the mayhem.

Dennis was desperately scrubbing at his costume vest to remove a smear of the silver hair gel he’d been using (what he thought was stain remover was, in fact, more of the silver hair gel). Robert was bellowing something about mismatched socks. Sandra and Annie were fuming at each other already from opposite sides of the stage, and Chris wanted to rip his hair out.

He gritted his teeth, and called over to the first row of seats, “Trevor, will you do a final mic check?”

Trevor looked up from his card game with Max, and pressed his lips together. “Right, on it.”

Chris hadn’t been able to wrap his head around that man quite yet. He was abrasive and rowdy at times, and completely silent at others. During rehearsal last week, Trevor missed an important sound cue, and Chris had looked up to find him haphazardly cutting the sleeves off of his shirt. The next day, he’d spent two hours painstakingly sewing beads onto the hem of Sandra’s dress. He was gentle with Annie and laughed with Max, but seemed seconds away from throwing a chair in Robert’s face. Around Chris, he seemed to shut down, and Chris couldn’t count the times he’d watch a smile die on Trevor’s face when he entered the room. It was utterly perplexing.

Chris fiddled with the cuffs of his dress shirt as the rest of the cast got their microphones inspected. He saw Trevor run up to his booth briefly for batteries, and eventually everyone else had been released to their dressing rooms.

Trevor finally approached Chris, looking wary. His expression shifted when he got closer, though, and he shook his head.

“No, I’ve done a sloppy job with that one, haven’t I. Gotta re-tape it, sorry.”

Chris shrugged, gesturing to his head in exasperation. “Go ahead.”

Trevor removed the mic tape from his pocket, fumbling for the end with unpracticed fingers. Chris suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It was never easy to take on new crew members, but Trevor sported a spectacular lack of enthusiasm that grated at Chris’s fragile patience.

When he finally got the tape ready, Trevor looked back up at him. “Right. Lemme see that.”

He casually nudged Chris’ chin up with the side of a finger, and Chris flinched a bit.

Chris was never one for physical contact. His castmates knew that, and they’d been decent enough to exempt him from proprietary hugs and claps on the back after a show. They all understood that he was off-limits. Well, except for Max. That man had no boundaries. Trevor was new, though, and Chris had seen the way he was with Annie. If there was one thing he could be certain about with Trevor, it was that he was tactile. The two of them were always leaning on each other, giving friendly pats when they passed in the hall, or whispering in each others’ ears. Part of him was drawn to that kind of easy camaraderie, and the other part snarled in the face of such blatant affection.

Trevor must have noticed his reaction, because he instantly pulled back and grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, mate, should’ve asked.”

Chris’s ears burned. “No worries.”

Trevor slowly reached a hand for the microphone taped to his forehead, and peeled it away. To his credit, the tips of his fingers barely grazed Chris’s skin.

He reached up a little higher, and paused. “May I?”

Chris nodded. Trevor pulled lightly on the wire, brushing aside a lock of hair, and Chris inhaled quietly, a spike of energy running from that point of contact to the base of his skull. Trevor didn’t seem to recognize his shift in body language, and held the mic in place while he tore a strip of tape with his teeth. Chris stared firmly ahead.

Once the mic was in place, Trevor reached to pat his shoulder, but aborted halfway and quickly stepped back. Chris brushed himself off.

Trevor cleared his throat, pulling out a small device to test audio levels. “Say a line for me?”

Chris pushed his shoulders back and slid into character. “What a terrible snowstorm. Good evening, I’m—”

“Right, yes, good. All working.” Trevor quickly pocketed the device, not making eye contact.

“Alright,” Chris responded curtly. “I’m sure you have plenty to do. Help Annie set for the top of show. And find that bloody dog.”

Trevor stared at him quietly for a second, nodded, and walked off without another word.

(..)

Haversham was a failure of epic proportions, but that was no surprise for Chris.

He was disappointed, of course. Guilt-ridden, most certainly. But definitely not surprised.

Between the potential chemical poisoning, the brewing frustration between Sandra and Annie boiling over, and the total breakdown of their hastily-constructed set, their opening night was a new low. Multiple members of cast and crew spent the night in A&E, and their next performance was delayed a few days as the society hurried to reconstruct their tattered stage.

The remaining shows were only slightly less disastrous. Sandra and Annie weren’t talking to each other, but that was better than an all-out brawl. Dennis wasn’t any better at his lines, but Max did his best to cue him (however unprofessional it may have been). Jonathan even nearly got his cue right on their third performance.

Trevor had seemed to take some strange satisfaction in flustering Chris and the cast on the first night, but his head injury must have knocked loose the part of his brain that made him so antagonistic. He mostly complied with the script, and hadn’t fed into any of the squabbles like he usually would. After a show, he hung about only long enough to reset the stage and close up his tech box, and then he’d vanish.

Trevor still checked his mic before opening the theater to the audience, but he spoke sparely, and he didn’t touch Chris more than he had to.

When the show closed, Chris didn’t think much on Trevor. He was too busy dealing with the complaints from the school and a few legal claims from audience members to ponder the man in much detail. He assumed that Trevor had been a temporary solution to an ongoing problem, and Annie had been resourceful enough to bring in some new hands when they needed it. Chris was fine with never seeing the confusing man again.

But then the fall semester came around, and something actually managed to surprise him.

When he walked into the theater for their first meeting of the fall production, Trevor was sitting onstage with the rest of the cast, digging into a bowl of yogurt as if he hadn’t just completely sidestepped Chris’s expectations.

He raised his eyebrows when he caught Chris staring, which was enough to catapult Chris into director mode. He managed to carry on the meeting as casually as he could.

(..)

Later, when he was putting on his scarf, Annie pulled him aside and told him she wanted to act. Her jaw was set, and she looked ready to fight him on it. Chris raised a hand placatingly.

“I’d be remiss to turn down another member of the ensemble, Annie, but you know how bloody impossible it was to find crew members,” Chris reminded her as he shrugged on his coat. “Are you sure about this?”

She nodded quickly.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, then I suppose we’ve got to start the search once again. And I can hardly imagine anyone would want to come on as the stage manager after last semester.”

Annie slowly turned towards the stage, and Chris followed her gaze. Trevor was currently standing in the center, sweeping up broken glass from a stage light that had collapsed in the middle of an improvisation exercise. He dropped the broom, leaned down to pick it up, and cursed loudly, pulling a shard of glass from his thumb.

Annie turned back to Chris expectantly, and all he could do was sigh.

Chapter Text

“On live TV, Chris? Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“It’s an incredible opportunity, Trevor. We’d be idiots to refuse.”

“We are idiots, and we’re going to make ourselves look stupid in front of thousands of people on fucking Christmas.”

“Millions, I think.”

“…Fucking hell.”

(..)

They were dancing. Their castmate had just been carried offstage on a stretcher, and they were dancing.

The level of commitment and optimism of the Cornley crew continued to shock Trevor, and, in times like this, that shock felt something more like incredulity or horror. How on earth could they think that the best course of action at a time like this was simply to carry on? Trevor would ordinarily have bailed out ages ago, but something about their fierce determination never failed to pull his attention back to the stage.

This was his crew, and if they were gonna stick with it, he was gonna do his goddamn best to prevent the worst.

This time, he hadn’t done enough. Jonathan was currently being swarmed by the BBC’s on-site first aid personnel, and Trevor could do nothing but stare.

A cough from his left startled him out of his dazed state. Chris was standing next to him in the wings, gripping Jonathan’s Peter hat tightly enough that his knuckles were white. His mustache was peeling off on one side. He stared at Trevor pleadingly, and Trevor knew exactly what he was implying.

“No. Please no.” His memory of the last time he was on stage was completely erased by the head trauma, but he could recall the pain of recovery well enough.

“Trevor. There’s no one else.” Chris’s usually unreadable face was tight with fear.

Trevor swallowed. “Max?”

“They’re in the scene together.”

“Robert?”

“I’d rather chop off my hand and throw it to a crocodile.”

“For god’s sake, even David fucking Suchet?”

“He won’t use the fly rig—falling backwards is triggering, apparently.”

Trevor gritted his teeth. “Shit. Get me a script.”

The thinly veiled relief on Chris’s face was almost enough to ease the nausea Trevor felt as soon as he put on the hat. Almost.

(..)

Trevor scratched at the bandage on his head, stumbling through the wreckage of the set in an attempt to find his phone. It had fallen out of his pocket at some point during the performance and was likely lost in the debris but he needed it to…

What did he need it for?

Whatever. He needed to find it.

He ducked to avoid the fallen mast of the pirate ship, and it sent his stomach roiling. The force of the discomfort winded him, and he quickly grabbed the remains of the Darlings’ bunk bed to steady himself.

Trevor slowly lowered himself to the ground, legs out in front of him. He closed his eyes (fuck, it was bright) but that only made the nausea worse, so he forced them back open. A cable caught his eye, lying in a pile next to his left foot.

That fucking cable. He should have known those damn fairy lights would have been a problem—-

Annie. That’s why he needed his phone. He gave the paramedics his mobile number in case something went wrong. Fuck, he needed to find it.

With a stifled groan, Trevor dragged himself to his feet, and the world spun.

The dressing rooms. He’d brought some of the abandoned costumes there after the show, maybe it had gotten caught up in the pile. All he needed to do was make it across the stage, through the wings, and down a flight of stairs. Easy peasy.

Clenching his jaw, Trevor began the journey, nearly tripping over yet another piece of the crumpled backdrop. By the time he made it to the wings, he was out of breath again, head pounding, leaning against the wall to steady his vision.

Straight ahead, Chris sat in a folding chair, gazing blankly at a wall.

Chris, who’d had a thousand-yard stare since the second disastrous revolve, who’d shouted for him from the stage time and time again, and who still hadn’t taken off his hook. Why hadn’t he left with the ambulances?

“Chris,” Trevor managed to croak out, but it was quieter than he would have liked.

Chris turned to look at him, but the sheen over his eyes remained.

“Hey, mate,” Trevor continued. “Got a minute?” Fuck, his head was heavy.

Chris’s eyes suddenly came into focus. “Are you alright?”

His legs trembled, and Trevor felt his stomach drop out from under him. “Just peachy, Christopher. Someone’s in my phone. I gotta find them.”

Concern flitted across Chris’s face, but any response he might have made was lost in the rush of pain behind Trevor’s eyes. Trevor’s knees gave out, and he blacked out before he reached the floor.

(..)

Chris quietly flipped through the various papers on the clipboard. The chair in this hospital room was maddeningly comfortable, and he fought the urge to shut his eyes and give into the exhaustion.

He’d been in the hospital for hours, despite being cleared of any serious injuries. Whatever strange state he’d gone into by the end of the show was likely a panic response, which was nothing new to him. He’d usually make himself several cups of tea and fill out some accident reports to channel his nervous energy, but tonight he wasn’t so lucky. His night had instead been spent at A&E, fielding questions and periodic updates from the various staff assigned to his cast members.

Trevor stirred slightly on the bed in front of him, and Chris checked his watch. It was just over two hours since he’d passed out after his examination, so he was due for a check-in.

Chris scooted his chair closer to the bed, taking a deep breath and lightly prodding Trevor’s unmoving arm. He got no response, and sighed.

He gently shook the man’s shoulder. “Trevor.”

Trevor groaned quietly, his face contorting with obvious discomfort,

“I know you don’t want to, but I need you to talk to me for a minute.” Chris poked him one last time, and pulled his hand back into his lap.

“Bugger off.”

”There he is. Can you tell me your sister’s name?”

Trevor huffed, rolling over to face Chris. “Tessa. How’d you know I have a sister?”

Chris gestured at the medical forms in front of him. “She’s on your emergency contact list.” He didn’t mention that he’d added himself to that list just an hour ago. Purely out of convenience, of course. “Do you know today’s date?”

“How long was I out?”

“Two hours.”

“Thirty-first of December.”

“Good.”

“Right,” Trevor responded blearily, rubbing one of his eyes. “How’s Annie?”

Of course his first thought would be of his best friend. “She’s going to be fine, and so is Jonathan. They’re keeping her sedated until they can confirm that there aren’t any complications with her heart, but the nurse I spoke with seemed optimistic.”

Trevor nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Chris cleared his throat. “Sorry to disturb you, but you know how concussion protocol goes.”

”I do. Thanks for sticking around, I guess.”

“Of course I would,” Chris said with a frown. “You’re members of my cast, I have an obligation to ensure your safety.”

Trevor smirked weakly. “How professional.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I don’t care for all of you.”

“Huh. Thought you couldn’t stand me, man.”

What?

That left Chris stunned for a moment. “Why would I dislike you?”

Trevor laughed, waving vaguely up and down his body. “Take a look at yourself, mate. We don’t exactly match up nicely.” Chris looked over at the heap of leather bracelets and chain necklaces that Trevor had taken off prior to his examination, laying on the table beside his bed. Sure, maybe they weren’t similar. They certainly didn’t share many interests, but Chris thought of himself as someone who could look past that sort of thing.

He looked down, tugging at his shirt. Max had been kind enough to bring everyone a change of clothes, and it had been a relief to get out of his bloodied costume. This shirt was freshly pressed and white as snow. For once, he resented his dry cleaner. “You’re quick to judge appearances, then.”

When he looked back up, Trevor’s expression had softened. “I don’t mean to judge. I just figured someone so, um, polished, wouldn’t want anything to do with a bloke like me.”

Chris drew his shoulders back. “Well, I’m hurt you’d think so little of me.”

Trevor blinked, looking a little dumbfounded.

“Alright. Are we friends, then?”

“If you’d like to be.” Chris, feeling bold, stuck out a hand.

Trevor shook his hand cautiously. His fingers were calloused, but his grip was gentle. “Sure. Come muck about with the proletariat. It’s fun down here.”

Chris couldn’t help but smile at that, and Trevor returned the smile with a crooked grin of his own. They sat in that silence for a moment, hands still connected between them, until Trevor yawned. His eyes started to flutter, and Chris quickly pulled his hand away. He checked his watch once again.

”You can go back to sleep if you’d like. I don’t imagine the others will be discharged any time soon, and you could use the rest.”

“See you in a few hours, mate.” Trevor saluted, rolling onto his side and pulling up the thin blanket to his chin.

Chris waited until he heard a quiet snore, left the clipboard on the table, and slipped out of the room.

Chapter Text

There was a shift in the air after Peter Pan, but Trevor only really noticed it in the small moments.

The cast dynamics had certainly changed. Sandra and Max were disgustingly affectionate, even by Trevor’s standards, but they were cute together. Jonathan, once their charismatic leading man, became quiet and a little withdrawn. Dennis was just as lost as ever. A new sort of respect had blossomed between Annie and Sandra, giggling together between scenes and eating their lunches side by side. Robert grew more spiteful. That was something Trevor started to look out for, particularly when it created challenges for Chris.

The two of them worked well together, Trevor found, especially once Trevor had stopped intentionally messing with the man. Teasing him was a temptingly easy endeavor, but it was worth holding back—Chris’s blatant surprise whenever Trevor anticipated his needs or stayed late to work on a piece of set made him feel warm.

Chris still kept himself at a distance. He was as short-fused and high-strung as ever. He wouldn’t go out for drinks after rehearsal with the rest of the cast (and they didn’t bother to tell him about their monthly karaoke nights).

Somewhere between the yelling and frustration, however, Trevor realized he was making an effort.

Chris would make eye contact with him from across the stage, rolling his eyes at a particularly bad line reading. He laughed at most of his jokes. He’d make small talk in the early hours, when it was just the two of them painting backdrops and editing scripts, and he’d always say goodnight after rehearsal had wrapped.

Chris was reaching out to him. Trevor didn’t know what to make of this sudden change, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

A year passed, quicker than Trevor could process, and Chris approached him again as the winter months closed in.

His eyes were gleaming, almost mischievously. “We’re doing the Christmas broadcast again, Trevor.”

Trevor stared at him blankly. “The BBC explicitly banned us, man. It’s literally illegal for us to be in the building while it’s being filmed.”

A small smile slid across Chris’s face. He quickly explained his batshit crazy idea, and Trevor somehow found himself nodding as they walked towards the exit. It was just the right amount of insane, and he knew without question that the other members of the society would agree. They might complain for a minute or two, but he’d heard just how anxious they were to prove themselves after last year’s disaster.

Chris finished tying the scarf around his neck. “You think we can pull it off?”

Trevor smiled, leaning against the doorframe to watch him tie up his boots. “Odds aren’t great. High chance of injury or imprisonment. Pretty much an impossible margin for success. I say we go for it.”

“Sounds like an average day for this crew, doesn’t it? We’ll discuss it with the others tomorrow. I’ll send you the scripts I managed to acquire when I get home—they’re definitely not legal, so proceed with caution.”

In the two and a half years they’d known each other, Trevor had never been more fascinated by this man.

“You sure about this, mate? It might get a little sticky for us if this goes sideways.”

Chris’s eyes burned. “I- we need this, Trevor. We’re…we’re going to make a name for ourselves, and not just in a headline or no-fly list. This is the moment for the world to finally see our potential. We have to try.”

His words followed Trevor all the way across the parking lot. As he climbed into his van, rubbing his hands together while he waited for the heater to turn on, Trevor felt a surge of confidence. These people were without a doubt the craziest he’d ever encountered, but he’d never felt devotion like this. Trevor would fight with tooth and nail for the society, and he was beginning to think that Chris would do the same.

(..)

Chris checked the prosthetics once more in his reflection, scrunching his face against the odd feeling of the latex on his nose.

Fuck, he needed this to go well. He could feel the anxiety curdling in his stomach, and he shook his hands out.

Thudding footsteps sounded around the corner, and he turned just in time to see Trevor skid to a stop beside him. “Ready, mate?”

Chris nodded tightly. “As much as I can be, yes. You still have your shoo-in with the broadcasting team?”

”Sure. We’ll go with that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Shoes will probably be involved, one way or another.”

“Trevor—”

Trevor raised a hand to stop him. “I’ve got it. You focus on channeling our dear friend Sir Derek Jacobi.”

Chris sighed. “Please don’t get us locked up.”

“I’ll do my best.” Trevor winked. Chris’s mouth went a little dry. The smile on the shorter man’s face was sharp and flinty, and he shifted from foot to foot as if waiting for permission to explode. There was something hypnotic about it. His energy was contagious, and Chris felt a similar adrenaline begin to kick in.

Trevor still seemed to be waiting for some sort of signal from him, so Chris gave him his best action-hero nod.

“Off you go. They’ll be starting any minute.”

Trevor saluted and took off down the alleyway, kicking up fake snow.

Chris bit his lip, guilt pricking his stomach. If tonight went the way it was supposed to, he’d be whisked off by West End casting directors quicker than Dennis could forget his next line, and he’d probably never see Trevor or the rest of the Cornley cast again.

Why was that thought suddenly so terrifying?

(..)

Chris found him drinking in the Crachit house after the ambulances had left. The rest of the society had long since made their way to the nearest pub to toast the happy couple, but Chris wasn’t feeling particularly merry.

Trevor was slumped on the couch, nursing a sore shoulder. Chris approached him slowly, trying to read the stage manager’s face. Trevor didn’t turn to acknowledge him, but Chris knew he was perfectly aware of his presence.

Steeling himself, Chris sat beside him on the couch.

“I’m sorry, Trevor.”

Trevor grimaced, taking another swig from his flask and leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “I know you are.”

“Yes, but I’m saying it again. I’m an arsehole.”

Trevor smirked, but there was none of his usual mirth in it. “Old news, mate.”

Chris huffed, feeling the familiar and oh-so comforting frustration rise. “For heaven’s sake—“

“I know, I know. You can’t blame us if we give you a hard time for a bit.” Trevor leaned back, finally turning to face him. Chris took in the bruised skin under his eyes, the tired slant of his mouth. His face was neutral, but it was all too easy to remember the hurt in Trevor’s eyes when he heard those godforsaken recordings.

The pit in Chris’s stomach hadn’t eased in the hours since that moment, even after that conversation in the graveyard and several unprompted hugs from Dennis. Trevor hadn’t made eye contact with him for the rest of the broadcast, and Chris had felt strangely unmoored.

Trevor continued to stare at him blankly, and Chris released a heavy breath.

“That whole party was a disaster. I made a series of misguided, stupid choices, and I wish I could take them all back. I shouldn’t have messed around with Robert’s sister. That was a bout of drunk stupidity, and then Sandra and Max…” Chris rubbed at his aching neck. “I’ve really made a mess of things this time, haven’t I.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow.

Chris sunk further into the couch. “More than usual, I mean.”

“There it is.”

Chris gritted his teeth, forcing the tension from his shoulders. “Seriously, Trevor, I really am sorry. You’re a hard worker and a good man. You do so much for— for us, for the society, and you deserve better. I’m nothing without you all, and I was stupid to think otherwise.” He hoped that Trevor could see how true that was.

Trevor must have found some of that genuine regret on his face, because his lips curled into a tentative smile. He reached out a hand, hovering for a moment before seemingly making a decision and setting it on Chris’s shoulder. Chris understood that touch for the gift that it was, and Trevor’s forgiveness came with more relief than he expected. Warmth radiated from the palm of his hand, and the steady pressure restored some of the balance that Chris had lost since the beginning of the broadcast. Chris exhaled slowly, leaning into the contact.

Trevor’s smile widened in surprise, finally reaching his eyes. This smile was real, not the stiff, close-lipped one Trevor used when he was frustrated with a broken piece of set or when Robert made an unsavory joke. Chris wondered when he’d learned to distinguish between the two.

Chris realized that he’d been staring, and quickly directed himself away from that train of thought, spitting out the first thing that came to mind. “Did you really body slam a BBC executive?”

If Trevor was startled by the rapid shift in the conversation, he didn’t show it. He chuckled quietly, looking away and taking another sip of his drink.

Chris was stunned. “Wait, really?”

Trevor laughed even harder, leaning his head against the back of the couch with the force of it. It was a contagious laugh, all wheezes and high-pitched giggles, and Chris found himself laughing along. It felt good to let loose. He’d been so tightly wound since the cameras started rolling, and it felt like the tension in his body was starting to ease.

Eventually, Trevor stifled his cackling, exhaling slowly. Chris’s shoulder received one more squeeze before Trevor stood up, and he winced, the memory of Robert’s attacks with various pieces of set dressing burning through his neck and back.

Trevor frowned. “Do you need first aid, mate?”

“No,” Chris insisted with a wave, “I’ll just grab an ice bag back at my flat.”

Trevor stared at him for a long time. Eventually, he reached out and patted Chris firmly on the back.

Chris cursed as pain rocketed through his torso, and Trevor scoffed, grasping his forearm and hauling him towards the door.

“Wait-“

“I’m taking you to A&E.”

“No, Trevor-“

“Non-negotiable. Consider this your first bit of penance.”

Chris rolled his eyes, but there was none of the usual ire behind it. He let Trevor pile him into his rusted van, and fell asleep against the window to the soft thudding of low-volume rock music.

Chapter Text

Trevor had given up trying to keep paint off of his trousers.

He wondered sometimes whether there was a single article of clothing in his closet that hadn’t been caught by wayward splashes of acrylic. He was a naturally fidgety man, and he’d ruined more than his fair share of good jeans by drumming paint brushes against his legs or spinning them through his fingers.

He could feel a smear of paint drying across his forehead, and he had streaks of white and blue all the way up to the elbow. He hoped he’d have the time to wipe it off before they were called to places. It would bug him for the rest of the broadcast if he didn’t.

Unfortunately, his skin couldn’t be his first priority at the moment. The show went live in less than half an hour, and he was still covering up the final bits of the sky that had been ruined.

During tech rehearsal a few hours before, they had realized that one of the planes had been mounted upside down from the rafters. Trevor had planned to handle it after he finished troubleshooting the circuits in the code-breaking machine, but Robert had apparently decided that it couldn’t wait. In the time it took for Trevor to take a short trip to the loo, Robert had retrieved the ladder, climbed up to assess the issue, and fell hard enough to scrape a massive area of the paint off of their backdrop.

He returned from the loo to the sight of a bashful Robert, a mangled painting, and a fuming Chris, who seemed to be one more minor inconvenience away from a total conniption.

Trevor didn’t wait to be asked. He nodded at Chris and grabbed his paint cans without a word.

Chris was especially agitated about this episode, and Trevor couldn’t quite figure out why. He suspected it had something to do with the casting (and subsequent replacement) of his father as Wycombe, but he didn’t dare pry. Chris’s family was a subject that they’d never touched on, and he had a feeling that was deliberate on Chris’s part. It felt like they’d been growing closer in the months since the whole Christmas Carol debacle, but Chris still held himself apart from the rest of them to a degree. Trevor wasn’t sure how far he could push the fragile boundaries of their friendship.

He hadn’t seen the man in an hour or so. Really, he’d been too absorbed in the rhythm of brushstrokes to notice much at all.

Trevor liked to paint. He’d done a lot of it for Peter Pan, and found it so calming that he’d started painting on his own. He was pretty damn good at it, too. There was a meditative quality to it that centered him. Annie said it was probably therapeutic. Amidst all of the chaos that was the drama society, making art was something that could be quiet and serene.

Well, as serene as it could get on the set of a Cornley production.

Dennis was standing in a corner, playing harsh, buzzing noises on his phone and attempting to mimic them. Annie was yelling for Max to leave her props alone as she glued Jonathan’s silicone jaw to his face. Trevor had learned how to tune it out well enough, but the occasional crash or shout would startle him out of his reverie.

He had just finished blending out the final cloud when Chris’s voice rang out over the chaos.

”Annie, you’re going on!”

Shit. Trevor looked from Chris, who seemed even worse off than he had that afternoon, to Annie, whose jaw had set in that stubborn, nervous way it did when she was unprepared.

Everyone scrambled backstage to get their costumes finalized and, possibly, to avoid Chris’s path. When he was angry, it almost seemed like he could burn you to a crisp with just a look. Chris stalked over to Trevor with purpose, and Sandra sent him a pitying glance over the man’s shoulder as she disappeared behind the set.

Chris’s pale blue top was slung over one arm. He was clad only in a thin t-shirt; it was a rare amount of skin for Chris to show around the cast. It must really be a bad day. Trevor steeled himself.

Chris halted abruptly in front of him, not making eye contact. “Would you—um.” He thrust a mic pack towards Trevor’s chest. Trevor hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.

”Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Chris quickly strapped on his mic belt, and Trevor moved behind him to loop the wire properly.

He took a deep breath, staring at the back of Chris’s neck. Here goes nothing. “You alright, mate?”

Chris’s head turned slightly. “What?”

”You’re a little…on edge.” Trevor secured the mic pack, double checking the batteries.

”Is that so?”

Trevor stepped to Chris’s side to look him in the eyes. His dark circles were deeper than usual, and he looked pale. “Yeah, man. Whatever’s bothering you, it’s showing.”

Chris’s lips tightened. “I’m fine, Trevor.”

Trevor rolled his eyes, positioning the microphone on Chris’s forehead. “Doesn’t seem that way.”

”Please don’t.”

“I’m not gonna fight you on this one, mate. You look like shit, though.” He taped the mic down, parting Chris’s hair neatly and securing the wire with a pin. “Talking about your feelings won’t kill you, you know. I want to help. That’s what I’m here for.”

Chris scoffed. “At least you’re here,” he muttered.

Trevor paused for a second, and walked around to his back. “What does that mean?”

Chris tensed, his shoulders going rigid. Trevor held his breath, waiting to be brushed off again.

Slowly, his shoulders lowered, as if Chris was relaxing the muscles one by one.

“Well. My parents have never really been the most supportive of my choices.”

Trevor, desperate not to shatter this moment of vulnerability, tore a piece of mic tape and delicately started to move the wire into place. “Your career choices, you mean?”

“All of them, really. In any case, they haven’t exactly paid much attention to the show. Father only wanted to be cast when he learned our viewer numbers.”

Trevor gritted his teeth.

Chris continued. “Of course, the one time they act even remotely interested, they don’t bother to show up. Even if they—“

He broke off, and Trevor waited silently.

Eventually, Chris found his words again. “I don’t know why I was kidding myself. They’ve never given a damn before, I shouldn’t have expected any different.”

Trevor cautiously settled a hand on Chris’s shoulder and gave it a gentle press.

Chris inhaled sharply through his nose, but his body didn’t shift away. He remained quiet and still, and Trevor took that as a sign to continue.

“Annie will be great,” Trevor said carefully. “We planned for this. At least she was able to rehearse a bit.” He finished adjusting the microphone, switching it on and walking around to face Chris.

“Don’t let him rattle you, Chris. He doesn’t deserve even a second of your time.”

Chris made eye contact hesitantly, lips skewed off to one side. “A bit too late for that, I’m afraid.”

A piece of hair had fallen out of place across his forehead, no doubt from all of Trevor’s fiddling. Trevor reached up and brushed it back, missing the way Chris’s eyes widened sharply. “You need a little more hairspray, man. Cover the mic when you do it, yeah?”

Chris swallowed. “Yes. Okay.”

Trevor patted the taller man on the arm absentmindedly, grabbing the level testing device from a nearby table. “You’ve got this. Give me a line?”

Chris fumbled for a moment, raising a hand to the bridge of his nose. ”Right. Um. Churchill would never get caught with his trousers down like—“

”Right. Looks good.” He pocketed the device.

Chris nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Trevor.”

”Yeah. ‘Course.”

”No. For— for that, and for all of the other stuff. You know.”

Warmth pooled in his chest. ”Oh. You’re welcome.” Trevor smiled at him.

Chris smiled tentatively in return, and Trevor’s chest went tight. He wanted to pin that smile in place. It made Chris’s whole face seem softer. Some strange, impulsive part of him wanted to reach out and press at the line between Chris’s brows until it smoothed. His fingers twitched, but, miraculously, he held himself in place.

Chris coughed, gesturing at his forehead. “You’ve got a bit of—“

“Yeah. Thanks.” He started to walk backstage, looking over his shoulder. Chris was sitting down at the desk, fiddling with his trousers.

Trevor smirked, pointing at the straps they’d sewed on to simulate Rufus’s war injury. “Break a leg, mate.”

Chris looked up sharply with an incredulous scoff, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes. Trevor would count that as a win.

(..)

Trevor found him sitting on the edge of the stage after the show. Chris looked a lot smaller than usual, curled in around himself, a finger running slowly across his throat.

”Want me to take a look at that?”

Chris startled. “What?” His voice was hoarse. Trevor didn’t know whether that was from all of the yelling or from the phone incident.

Trevor gestured towards his neck, and Chris nodded, returning his gaze to the floor. Trevor sat beside him, reaching towards the buttons of his flight suit.

“May I?”

Chris nodded again.

Trevor unfastened the first button, pulling aside the fabric to examine the bruising. It was already starting to bloom in reds and soft purples, and he had a feeling it would only get worse. He grimaced.

“It’s not great, man.”

Chris sighed. “I thought so. It certainly doesn’t feel great.” He sounded like he was forcing every word out of his throat.

“Maybe don’t talk so much for a bit. I know that may be a struggle for you,” Trevor added lightheartedly, and Chris elbowed him softly. He scooted a bit closer. “Do you want to go get it checked out by the professionals?”

Chris shook his head.

Trevor sat with him in silence for a minute, looking over the scattered papers and fallen props around the stage.

Chris’s quiet voice piped up, and Trevor whipped around to listen. “You know, they’re not on my emergency contact list at the hospital?”

Trevor blinked. “What?”

Chris turned to look at him with a rueful grin. “You lot in the society are the only ones. Raymond and Celia Bean are nowhere on the list.”

”Why?”

Chris looked away, his gaze shuttering. “I— I called them once, from the emergency room. They never showed. I figured it was best to remove the option and save us all some precious time.”

A surge of sudden, fiery protectiveness expanded in Trevor’s chest. He looped an arm around Chris’s shoulders and pulled the man into his side. Chris immediately leaned in to him, resting his head almost instinctively on Trevor’s shoulder.

Trevor could feel the water rising around him. Every second he spent around this fascinating, frustrating man, it felt like he was approaching a point of no return.

Chris exhaled slowly, leaning more of his weight against Trevor’s side.

Fuck it.

Trevor took one last breath, and let himself drown.

(..)

It was mid-morning, and Chris had nearly finished editing the script for A Trial to Watch. The rewrites had been swift and overwhelming since the news came of Dennis’s somehow legal obligation to play Kurt McKennon, and Chris had spent the past day doing his best to rid the show of as much legalese as he could justify. Lord, he was tired.

There was a quick series of knocks on his office door, and Trevor stuck his head inside.

“Have you got any updates on the set specifics? Jonathan locked himself in the supply closet again so I’ve gotta run to B&Q, and I can pick up some other supplies.”

Chris frowned. “Can you not get the door open from outside?”

“He’s somehow broken the knob, apparently, and I need to take the hinges off.”

“Don’t we have a power drill?”

Trevor grimaced. “It’s in the closet.”

Chris put down his pen and rubbed at his temples. “Yes. Fine. just bring me the receipts. I’ve got a hardware estimate, but we all know it won’t be enough.”

Trevor nodded, walking over to take the slip of paper from him and tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans. He hesitated in front of the desk for a second.

“Do you need a coffee? I could use a bit of a kick, if I’m being honest.”

Chris blinked. “That would be…yes, that would be excellent. Thank you.”

“Two sugars?”

“Correct,” Chris said with a slight smile.

Trevor smirked and knocked twice on the desk. “Right. Back in a bit,” he said quickly, and then he was gone.

An hour or so later, Chris left the cast doing warm up exercises onstage to grab the scripts from his office. A decent-sized cup was sitting in front of his chair, next to a small pastry bag. He was pleasantly surprised when he found that Trevor had brought him a small blueberry muffin to go with his coffee, and made a mental note to thank him later.

He took a sip of his drink. It had cooled off a bit, but was still warm enough to be drinkable. Trevor had accidentally left him the receipt for the cafe rather than the hardware store, but Chris skimmed over it anyway.

His black coffee, the muffin, and—a mocha frappuccino?

Chris had to smother a laugh.

(..)

The day after A Trial To Watch aired, he found another takeaway cup on his desk. A small sticky note was pasted to the top.

In a hasty scrawl: better than embalming fluid, i hope :)

Chapter Text

The coffee was starting to burn his hand through the takeaway cup as Trevor entered the theater, and he quickened his steps towards Chris’s office. 

The pre-rehearsal caffeine and pastries had become a sort of routine between the two of them, one Trevor was doing his best not to read into. He’d usually get a stiff smile or a grateful nod, and they’d settle into their work quietly from across the desk. On the occasions that Chris would pat his hand or pull a chair next to his with an excited, slightly manic gesture, Trevor would do his best to regulate his breathing. 

Chris had become something of a problem in the last few weeks. Trevor knew that the infatuation he’d been nursing was ill-advised, but every small moment of eye contact or fleeting touch whittled away his misgivings.

Steeling himself, he pushed open the door to the office.

Chris looked up from his desk, eyes bright with a mischievous glint that Trevor was beginning to recognize as a creative spiral. “Trevor, can we get a stairlift for this week?”

Trevor sighed. Chris didn’t waste a moment. 

”I might be able to make that work, actually. Give me twenty-four hours. I’ll call my mate who does demolition for abandoned estates. Gotta be plenty of old geezers on his end, right?”

Chris stared at him with mild disgust. “Horrifying. Keep me updated.”

Trevor nodded, handing over a small paper bag and the still-steaming cup.

Chris’s eyes flooded with relief and hunger, and Trevor dug his fingernails into his palm. 

(..)

That wig was utterly ridiculous. That’s what they all said during the first dress rehearsal, and Chris had gone off on them about historical accuracy taking precedence over vanity.

Trevor had laughed right along with everyone else.

If he had excused himself immediately afterwards to the loo to scream into his hands, no one needed to know.

(..)

In his search for the now-missing cat, Chris found his way back into the Fennick house.

Stuart (the rather underwhelmingly-named nightmare of a feline costar) had run off after scratching up poor Annie’s face, and the cast had been put to work looking for him after filming ended. Chris hadn’t been particularly fond of the creature, so he wasn’t trying too hard. 

What he did find as he stepped into the dining area was a now-conscious Trevor being tended to by a well-bloodied Annie.

Her cuts didn’t seem to be too deep, but there were enough of them that it was frightening. She didn’t appear bothered, though. All of her attention was centered on the man before her, sitting casually on the edge of the table. 

Chris felt his stomach do a strange flip as she tilted Trevor’s chin up to examine him. They’d always been closer to each other than to the rest of the society, and Chris almost felt like an intruder as he watched Annie tut over her friend.

Trevor flinched as Annie shone a torch in his eyes.

He tried to bat her hand away, but Annie shoved his arm down. “I feel fine, An. Go get your bloody antibacterial wipes and let me bandage you up.”

“You were unconscious for seven minutes, Trev. That’s dangerous.”

Trevor rolled his eyes, and immediately cringed, raising a hand to his temple. “Maybe I’m a little banged up, but we can’t have you bleeding out on the floorboards.”

Chris coughed, and they both startled a little. Chris smiled tightly, nodding at Annie. “You go get the first aid kit. I’ll look after him for a moment.”

She looked back at Trevor with uncertainty, and the stage manager groaned.

“I’m not gonna collapse in the next two minutes. Go on.”

Annie sent Chris a warning glance as she walked off towards the wings, brushing cat hair off of her skirts.

Chris turned to Trevor, who was watching him with a wry smile. 

He walked over with a quirk in his brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Trevor replied in a way that clearly meant the opposite. His smug grin widened.

“What’s going on?”

Trevor chuckled, pointing vaguely at his own face. “You missed a sideburn, mate.”

Chris quickly reached up to his cheek, the unfamiliar scratch of synthetic hair under his hand. He ripped it off, tossing it in Trevor’s face as the man kept laughing. 

Chris sat gingerly on the table beside him. He stole a glance at Trevor’s profile, settling momentarily on the amused curl of his lips. There was something so soft about his stage manager in quiet moments like this, when they weren’t cleaning up the society’s messes. His brow relaxed, eyes half-lidded, humming quietly as he fiddled with his thumbs. Trevor scratched at his neck, and Chris quickly looked away.

“You said you’re feeling alright?”

Trevor’s expression softened slightly. “Yeah, nothing too bad. Maybe a mild concussion, but I think I’ve had enough of those by now that it’s a permanent state of being. I’ll live.”

Chris nodded, and Trevor nudged him with an elbow. 

“Don’t worry that pretty head too much about me, mate. I’m like a cockroach. Nasty, but unkillable.”

“Nasty indeed,” Chris responded lightly, and Trevor scoffed, shifting his legs on the table.

Chris only noticed then that Trevor’s ruined trousers had been replaced by a large white cloth. He looked around for a moment and noticed a missing curtain. Ah.

Trevor must have connected the dots, because he snorted. “Quite a show we put on, apparently.”

Chris blanched. 

“I may have. Um.”

“Yup. Annie told me. She said it was, and I quote, ‘violent’. Still hurts a bit, so she must have been right.”

Chris’s cheeks burned, and he quickly turned his face away as Annie returned with the first aid kit. Trevor reached for it automatically, pulling out a roll of gauze, and Chris patted him once on the shoulder before slipping out of the room. He still needed to find that damn cat.

(..)

Chris felt a change in the air the moment Trevor entered the police station, and he knew he was in for a long night.

Trevor was bargaining heatedly with a few of the officers out front. Chris couldn’t see him, but he could practically taste the simmering fury from down the hall. He could imagine Trevor’s expression in that moment: the cold slant of his lips, the sharp line of his brow. An angry Trevor was not unlike a raging bull—head lowered between his shoulders, feet planted, waiting to explode.

“…he’s injured, you daft pricks! Both of them! Yes, I have the fucking money…”

There was a moment of silence. Trevor must have been digging around for the cash.

Robert had been unsuccessfully trying to get his attention for the last thirty minutes. He’d resorted to staring stalwartly at the bars in front of him while Robert kicked pebbles around the holding cell’s floor. Robert, who’d been waiting for him backstage with two police officers and a sheepish look in his eyes. Chris wanted to strangle him, but that was nothing new.

Trevor appeared in front of the cell, and Chris was almost amused by how perfectly he matched the image in his head. If it was possible for someone to be smoking from the ears, Trevor would be an atmospheric hazard.

Any amusement dissipated quickly, though, as soon as Trevor opened his mouth.

“Get up. We’re going to the hospital.” He spoke through his teeth, barely contained anger rolling off of him in waves. Chris winced and stood, hearing Robert do the same behind him. Trevor maintained eye contact with Chris while an officer unlocked the sliding door, making no attempt to hide his disappointment. Chris could feel his stomach twisting in on itself, and he walked meekly out of the cell.

“The whole cast put in for the bail money, so you’ve got some good fucking thank you cards to write,” Trevor hissed as they exited the building, his boots thudding on the pavement. 

When they had all climbed into the rusted van, Trevor shifted in his seat to look at Robert. “How hurt are you?”

”Nothing a pack of wine gums won’t fix,” Robert responded dryly from the backseat.

“Don’t you fucking try me, man. I’m thirty seconds from walking you back in there and letting them keep you for the night. Hospital or no?”

Robert looked appropriately chastised. “I’ll be fine.”

Trevor huffed. “Your flat, then.” His eyes flitted quickly over Chris in the passenger seat as he turned back around to the steering wheel, and Chris swallowed. He understood the deadly promise in that look. His dressing-down would come later. Delightful.

Trevor started the car, and accelerated out of the parking lot with more force than was probably necessary.

The ride to Robert’s was tense, to say the least. Trevor’s anger polluted the air, and Chris fought the urge to tuck his legs up to his torso and hide from the man. When Robert got out, Trevor didn’t say goodbye. He switched the van back into gear and drove off without a word.

Chris felt like he would be sick. Maybe that was the head trauma, though. He thought to put the window down, but one glance at the man next to him was enough to squash that idea. It felt as though any sudden moves or sharp noises would set Trevor ablaze.

After a minute of silence, Trevor spoke up quietly. “Why didn’t I hear from you, Chris.”

There it was. Chris stuttered for a moment. “I— well, it was a quick thing, you see. He— Robert, um, he must have made them wait for the broadcast to be over. That was decent of him, I guess. And then they just grabbed us, and I barely had the presence of mind to yell through the door when they walked us out—“

“Because you’re injured,” Trevor growled. “They should have taken you to hospital immediately. You had a bloody call, at least?”

“I had to call the studio to—“

Trevor’s grip spasmed on the steering wheel. “Christopher Bean.”

Chris screwed his eyes shut.

“Are you actually telling me that you got arrested and you used your one call on the fucking BBC?”

The pit in his stomach widened further.

Trevor’s face was twisted in a terrifying combination of fury and worry. “You fell from the fucking ceiling and I couldn’t find you for an hour, and of course I’m panicking because, for all I know, you could have a head injury and you’re dead in a ditch on the side of the road because you’re too fucked up to look both ways.” He cursed under his breath, swerving around a pedestrian. “I had to find out from Dennis, Chris. I only knew you’d been detained because I asked where you were and he said you’d gotten in a car with Robert and you were handcuffed. But no, our priority should be the fucking studio executives.”

Trevor seemed to leash himself, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Your commitment is usually admirable, but I swear to God it’s gonna get you killed, mate. This is a step too far. This show cannot be your fucking priority.”

Indignation sparked in Chris’s gut. “Maybe if you had your priorities straight, this wouldn’t have been an issue in the first place.”

Trevor’s expression became icy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

That spark spread slowly through the oil spill of his guilt. It was a relief. Anger was far more comforting and familiar than remorse. Chris set his jaw. “Your sole job as the stage manager is to ensure that everything goes smoothly for the production. I trust you to do that job, for all of our sakes. The least you could do is try, like the rest of us do.”

“You think I’m not trying?” Trevor sounded winded.

“The sets were upside down, Trevor!”

“You’re the one who hired Dennis’s dad to do the construction! Why on earth would you ever approve that?”

Chris pinched his nose, flashes of his budgeting documents and frustrated emails appearing in his mind. “You should have been monitoring his progress. It couldn’t have hurt you to check in at least once.”

Trevor scoffed. “Oh, right, my apologies. I must have missed that detail while I was doing everything else, like painting more fucking backdrops and building that stupid dog and making sure there aren’t any more flammable liquids on set so you don’t get chemical poisoning again. The integrity of your precious show is not my primary concern. I’m your fucking friend and that means I care about your well being, arsehole. Sue me.”

“I don’t need you to be my friend, I need you to do your goddamn job.” Chris couldn’t stop the poison slipping off his tongue.

Trevor laughed quietly, and it was a dry, dead sound. “You know, sometimes I wonder why the hell I stick around.”

”So do I,” Chris shot back without thinking.

That one seemed to strike Trevor between the eyes. Chris didn’t look away quickly enough to avoid seeing the flash of hurt and resignation pass over Trevor’s face.

A heavy silence fell over the van, and it followed them all the way to the car park outside of A&E.

Trevor jumped out of the van and slammed the door, walking ahead of Chris into the waiting area. 

When someone finally addressed them, he scratched violently at a medical form with a dying ballpoint pen and spoke in hushed tones with a nurse, and eventually Chris was ushered off to a room. Trevor stayed behind.

An hour or so later, after he’d been told he only had some bruised ribs and not a fracture, the same nurse came to fetch him from his examination room.

”Your friend is ready to take you home, Mr. Bean.”

Chris frowned, a spike of confusion and guilt piercing his chest. “He stayed?”

The nurse looked at him like he was stupid. “He’s your emergency contact, lad.”

(..)

Trevor didn’t look at him while he got out of the van. 

As soon as Chris had shut the door behind him, Trevor rocketed away, and Chris was left on the curb, watching the exhaust blow away in the wind.

Chapter Text

The star taunted Chris from its place in the rafters.

The distinct lack of sparkle had caught his eye as soon as he’d approached the stage, but it was the message in blue that had pinned him to the spot. Chris had been staring at those words for several minutes.

Was this what it had come to?

Trevor hadn’t actually spoken to him since the 90 Degrees disaster. Any strictly necessary communication had been carried out via the sets or through Annie. She didn’t seem particularly happy about the setup, but always recited the messages through gritted teeth.

Chris had retreated into himself. His temper was the shortest it had ever been, and though he regretted how much he’d snapped at the cast in the last week, it felt beyond his control. He was mature enough to admit that Trevor had been a balancing figure in his daily life, and he was feeling the absence.

He only recognized after the fallout how much Trevor had kept him in check. There had always been an even voice muttering in his ear during a scene change, or a steady hand between his shoulder blades, or a warning glance when his voice started to sharpen. Trevor was so sure, so solid and real. He was a good friend, and a half-decent crew member. He was gone, and Chris was floundering.

That’s where Sandra found him, stuck in place with his neck craned towards the ceiling.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, approaching cautiously. News traveled quickly in their company, and the whole cast had been tiptoeing around the two of them for weeks. They looked at him like he was a time bomb, flinching every time a prop was broken or a set piece collapsed. It made Chris want to tear his hair out.

Sandra hesitated in the doorway. “Everyone’s here, Chris. You should get into costume.”

“I will,” he responded without looking.

She sighed, moving closer to him. “It won’t last forever, Chris. It never does.”

His shoulders drooped. “It’s worse this time. We haven’t spoken a word. Usually we’re forced to speak to each other about some work issue, and then there’s a bit of meaningful, silent eye contact and we proceed as normal. It’s easy.” As the words left his mouth, Chris realized how stupid he sounded.

Sandra stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

Chris shot her a warning glance. “Please don’t lecture me about this. I’ve got plenty of that from myself.”

She ignored him. “Both of you are being a bit childish about it, if you ask me.” Sandra looked pointedly up at the star.

“I’ll find a way to talk to him. I promise.”

Sandra nodded tersely. “Damn right you will. Get your act together before someone gets killed.”

With that, she left him standing alone in the wings, the wooden star swaying slightly in the blue stage lights.

(..)

His ribs weren’t in any worse condition, thank goodness. The doctor’s main concern had been an aggravation of his injuries from 90 Degrees, but his arm must have taken the brunt of the impact from the fire extinguisher. Within an hour or two, Chris was given some anti-inflammatory medication and was released.

He quickly did the rounds and checked on his cast. Annie had been sheltered from the falling book cover by the others, so she was fine. Jonathan was a bit traumatized, but intact. A few of the others had minor cuts and bumps, Robert sporting a couple of burns across his upper back, but the worst of it had fallen to Trevor this time around.

Chris saved Trevor for last. He had a feeling that this conversation was going to be longer than the others, and he wanted to be sure that the others were alright before he let himself get vulnerable.

Also, he was stalling. No surprise there.

Eventually, he couldn’t justify chatting any longer with Max in the waiting room. Chris squared his shoulders, turned the corner, and didn’t give himself a moment to pause before opening the door to Trevor’s room.

His stage manager was sitting with one foot dangling off of his bed, the other bandaged tightly. A sketchbook was propped open against his thigh, and he drummed a pen against a blank page. Trevor looked up as soon as Chris entered, and his fidgeting stopped. He bore a striking resemblance to a spooked deer.

Chris looked him over in the span of a second. His foot had been addressed, no bruises or other wounds, and the pallor of his face seemed to be from exhaustion and stress rather than any illness. Chris relaxed slightly, but his fists remained clenched.

Trevor blinked at him, eyes wary. His expression shifted to something closer to confusion as Chris approached his bed, and he didn’t move as Chris sat down beside him.

The silence remained. Chris just stared, both relishing and hating the eye contact. It still made him uncomfortable, but at least Trevor was looking at him.

Those blue eyes narrowed. “Chris—“

He couldn’t help himself. Chris wound his arms around Trevor’s shoulders, burying his face in the side of his neck. Trevor tensed, and, against his instincts, Chris made himself stay in place. He shut his eyes, fisting a hand in the back of Trevor’s shirt, and that must have pushed the man over the edge.

Trevor practically melted in his arms. Chris felt a cheek press into the crown of his head, a strong arm wrap around his waist, and he shuddered with relief.

They stayed there for longer than Chris would be willing to admit. They didn’t speak, just sat in silence until their breathing synced up. Trevor’s hand ended up between his shoulder blades, pressing firmly between two vertebrae. Chris focused on that spot, the nerves spiking off from it, the small twitches of Trevor’s fingers as he breathed.

Eventually, Trevor gave him a gentle squeeze and slowly pushed Chris back, leaving his hands on Chris’s shoulders.

His eyes were far softer than before, tentative and prying. “Are we talking about this now?”

“We should, shouldn’t we. We should have a good, real conversation. Like grown-ups.” Chris swallowed.

Trevor smirked and raised his eyebrows invitingly.

Chris exhaled. “Christ. I’m sorry, Trevor. I- I made a mess again, and I was too much of a coward to clean it up.“

Trevor ran a hand through his hair. “Same here, mate. I should have just…” He slumped back into the pillows, hiding his face in his elbow. “God, it was so immature.”

After a second, he sat back up, facing Chris head on.

“I should have talked to you. I was worried that I’d misunderstood you, and that, from your point of view, our friendship had been strictly convenient and professional. I shouldn’t have made assumptions.”

Chris was stunned.

Trevor smirked at the dumbfounded look on his face. “Yeah, Annie talked me through that one. ‘M not always the best with the important words.”

“Well, that was. It was nice,” he forced out, patting Trevor’s knee. “I’m- I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you, Trevor. I do value your friendship quite a bit, and I shouldn’t have let my frustration about the show take precedence over that.”

Trevor nodded slowly, and Chris continued.

”I- Well. I think I tend to focus on the mistakes and the mishaps because I can fix them. I can have someone rebuild the set and I can drill people on their lines but I feel entirely useless when it comes to the people themselves.”

Trevor scooted closer to him.

Chris coughed quietly. “Sometimes I think that if I can fix things, then all of the other stuff won’t matter. I know I’m a bit of a mess, but maybe if I can keep scraping these productions together then you lot won’t move on.”

Trevor pressed their shoulders together. “You scare me, sometimes. Scratch that, all the time. You terrify me on the regular.” He picked at a scab on the side of his thumb. “I don’t think you understand how much people care about you. You put yourself in danger because you don’t think it matters to us if you get hurt. You underestimate the investment we have in our relationships with you, and that means you also underestimate how much your words mean to us.”

Chris leaned into that line of warmth along his upper arm, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall across from him.

“We really fucking care about your opinion, Chris,” Trevor continued, his voice a little hoarse. “I know it doesn’t always seem like it, but we do rely on you. Not just because you’re our director, but because you’re our friend. You’re an asshole sometimes, but most of us are too. We match. It’s that simple.”

Chris scrunched his eyes shut. “It’s new to me. This kind of friendship.”

”Yeah?”

”I’m not used to people actually caring what I have to say. I usually have to yell to be heard, but you…you—“

Trevor snaked a hand down between them and wrapped gentle fingers around his wrist, brushing his thumb across Chris’s pulse. “I hear you now, man. I’m listening.”

“I really hope you stick around,” Chris mumbled, shifting his position slightly without losing contact with the man next to him. He turned slightly to look at Trevor, and his stage manager’s eyes were already trained on him. There was something in his gaze that made Chris want to shiver.

“I’m not going anywhere. There was a moment there when I thought I’d walk out, but it didn’t last. I could never leave.”

”Why not?”

Trevor’s face paled slightly. He cleared his throat. “Well—“

The door burst open, and Trevor jolted upright.

Annie panted at him from the doorway. “Trev. Jonathan. Locked himself in the bathroom. There’s a line out the—oh, hi Chris.”

Chris waved at her meekly.

She gestured vaguely between the two of them. “Figure your shit out, did you?”

Trevor nodded, an amused smile curling across his lips.

“Good. Grand. Never make me a fucking mailbox again, or I’ll spike your drinks with cow piss.”

”Noted.”

”Understood.”

Annie smiled bitterly. “Anyways. Have you got that multi-tool in your bag, Trev?”

“Yup.”

Trevor gave her directions as she rummaged through his backpack, and Chris tuned them out. He focused instead on the five little points of heat from Trevor’s fingers around his wrist, radiating up his forearm. Their hands were cradled between the two of them, and if Annie noticed them, she didn’t show it.

Annie eventually left, brandishing a wrench like a weapon, and Trevor turned back to him, his eyes crinkled at the edges. “We alright?”

“I hope so,” Chris whispered in response. His hand received a squeeze.

“Good. Can we agree not to do that again? I hate it when we’re cross with each other.”

Chris laughed weakly. “Agreed. I really thought that was the final straw.”

Trevor chuckled, and Chris felt it against his ribs. “I’m harder to get rid of than that, mate.”

(..)

The following evening, Trevor had a cup of coffee and the tape for the Nativity broadcast in hand as he knocked on Chris’s door. He didn’t wait for a response to open it, sticking his head into the room with a wry smile.

“Time to face the music, Chris. Insurance claims aren’t gonna write themselves.”

The aforementioned man was seated at his desk, his head resting in one hand. He was so still, Trevor thought for a moment he could be asleep, but his right hand was drumming a steady pattern on a binder in front of him.

Trevor leaned in further. “Chris?”

Chris looked up at him sharply, and his eyes were red and shining.

”Fuck,” Trevor hissed, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. “What happened?”

”Did you know about this?” Chris’s face was a carefully constructed portrait of indifference, but his voice shook. His hair was sticking up in all directions and the lines around his mouth were deep, but his eyes were the worst. There was a blankness to them that Trevor hadn’t seen before, and it scared him.

“Know about what, mate?”

Chris slowly lifted a piece of paper from the top of the binder and held it out to him. Trevor crossed the room in two strides and took it. Sitting on the desk, he started to read.

This document and those who’ve signed below demand the immediate resignation of one Christopher Bean from his post as Director of the Cornley Drama Society.

This petition, composed by one Robert Grove, declares that Christopher Bean is unwilling or unable to care for the mental and physical wellbeing of his cast members to his utmost ability, and that continued failings on his part would threaten the society’s success. Those who have signed below agree to elect Robert Grove as—

“Shit.” Trevor skimmed the rest of it—mostly meaningless jargon—and his gaze caught on the clump of signatures at the bottom. He’d forged enough medical release forms to know that these were the real thing. He looked back up at Chris, righteous fury stirring in his chest. “When did this happen?”

Chris blinked at him as if coming out of a dream. He looked like shit, and it made Trevor want to break something. “You didn’t know?”

“Take a look at the signatures, mate. I didn’t know, and even if I did, there’s no world where I would have signed it. You’re an obtuse prick sometimes, but he’s a bloody psychopath. When did he give this to you?”

Chris wiped a hand down his face. “Just after rehearsal ended.”

A whole bloody hour ago. And Chris had been left here to sit with that fucking petition, alone. Fuck.

“Surely it’s not—“

“Everyone, Trevor. Everyone signed it.” Chris’s voice trembled. “Have I really been that horrible?”

“No, I don’t think—“ Trevor sighed, searching desperately for his words. “I think Robert saw an opening, and he probably used any lingering frustration from the Nativity to stir up trouble. For the others, I don’t think it’s personal. They’re scared.”

”It feels pretty bloody personal,” Chris responded quietly.

Trevor hated this. He hated the way Chris’s shoulders sank forward, so opposite from his usually impeccable posture. He hated that look of defeat, and that burning thing in his chest started to scream for retribution. Last night had been a fucking revelation. Chris had been vulnerable, had put effort into a genuine conversation and affirmed that their friendship and his connections with the other society members were important to him. His eyes had been tentative but open, and Trevor had cursed himself over and over for letting their fight go on as long as it did.

He needed Chris like he needed air. To deprive himself of their friendship was a unique torture, and one he hoped he’d never have to repeat.

Trevor took a deep, slow breath. “I’m gonna kick his ass, Chris.”

”Trev—“

“No, this is too fucking far,” Trevor growled. “God, I just wanna—“

“Please don’t. Just let me leave with a scrap of my dignity.” Chris’s eyes were glazed, and he started to stand as if on autopilot.

Trevor panicked. “Wait. Wait, you can’t just walk out. I’m not gonna work under that prick, Chris. No fucking way.”

“They need you.”

“Well, too fucking bad.” Trevor stuck out a hand and grabbed him by the shoulder. “If you walk, I’m walking out with you. Didn’t we just have a lovely chat about this little family we’ve got here?”

Chris gestured helplessly at the petition, then the door, and finished with a yank at his hair. His head dropped between the two of them.

“This ‘family’ doesn’t want me, Trevor.”

Trevor quickly pulled him into a hug, and Chris went without complaint. His arms found Trevor’s waist instantly, and Trevor hoped Chris didn’t notice his sharp inhale.

He cautiously raised a hand to the back of Chris’ head, combing gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. Chris relaxed against him with something that sounded like a sob, and Trevor squeezed him tighter. Chris had a hard time initiating physical contact, but the moment Trevor touched him, Chris would instantly latch onto him like a vise.

Not that Trevor was complaining. Quite the opposite.

He held them there for a minute, scratching gentle circles into Chris’s scalp. “They do want you, mate. They just don’t think so right now.”

After a moment, he reluctantly pushed Chris back, gripping him by the shoulders. Chris stared at him, a hint of that familiar exasperation tugging at the edges of his face. Good.

“You’re gonna be a supporting actor for a little bit, and we’re gonna fuck this play up so badly Robert won’t be allowed within a hundred meters of a low-level producing position, let alone a director’s chair.” He squeezed Chris’s shoulder gently. “They’ll see just how good they had it.”

Chris’s eyes shuttered. “I won’t sabotage a Cornley production.”

Trevor flashed a smile that was all malice. “Leave that bit to me, babe.”

(..)

Chris really should have seen it coming.

The coup shouldn’t have blindsided him like it did. He’d been all too caught up in his row with Trevor and the daily battles with the BBC to see the rapidly deteriorating morale of his cast. He’d let the stress of it all boil over on all of them during the Nativity, and he dreaded having to watch that tape with Trevor. He knew his stage manager— well, not his anymore. When had Trevor become his stage manager?

A question for another time. The tape had been glaring at him from his coffee table for the past week. He knew Trevor wouldn’t rub it in, but it would certainly be painful to watch himself shout everyone’s ears off.

For now, though, the cameras were rolling, and Trevor had a shit-eating grin on his face from across the studio (if only Chris knew how ironic that description would be).

When the banner collapsed onto Robert’s head, Trevor caught Chris’s gaze from the wings and winked. Chris’s face flushed.

Well. Shit.

Chapter Text

“I’m not wearing those fucking tights, Chris.”

“Fine. No tights. Please, Trevor.”

“You really want me on stage, mate?”

“Well, it’s either that or I put a weapon in the hands of Robert or Dennis.”

“Hmph.”

“…I’ll buy your coffee for a week?”

“Deal.”

(..)

Trevor’s headphones weren’t nearly enough to block out the clanking of the hammer, so he timed his swings to the thundering rhythm of Duran Duran in hopes that it would all weave together in his ears.

It didn’t really work, but it was a nice thought. Gotta romanticize the grunt work somehow.

The contractors they’d brought in for There Is No Escape had quit mere hours into their work on the metal structure that spanned the stage, leaving Trevor to finish reinforcing all the support beams. There were about fifty safety violations per square meter of the thing, but it was far too late to address them now. He still had to figure out the pulley system for the rest of the set pieces, and, knowing his luck, he’d spend the rest of the week on that project.

Simon Le Bon droned on as Trevor moved to the next hole in the pipe. His arms were aching, but he knew that momentum was crucial. If he stopped, it would take a stupid amount of energy to start up again.

A pair of gentle fingers prodded his shoulder, and Trevor nearly slammed his head into one of the bracing bars.

Chris grimaced apologetically as Trevor turned around, gesturing at the headphones. Trevor pulled them off quickly.

“Alright?”

”Yes,” Chris said with a hint of a laugh. “Have you got the top-down diagram of the set? Vanessa spilled tea on my copy and I need to tape Dennis’s mark so he doesn’t fall off the balcony again.”

Trevor sighed, reaching into one of the many pockets on his paint-covered trousers and removing a folded, dusty sheet of paper. Chris wrinkled his nose slightly at the creases but took it without complaint.

His eyes skimmed over the schematics. “Any luck with the phone booth?”

“Unless you’re up for a bit of theft and property damage, we’ve gotta build one. I’ll get on that once I finish with the pulleys.” Trevor added that to his mental list, long enough at this point that he doubted he’d be able to follow through. One less thing for Chris to worry about, though.

“Right.” Chris nodded absently, still looking at the paper.

A moment of silence. Trevor cleared his throat.

A crash echoed through the theater from backstage, and both of them groaned.

Chris rubbed his temple. “I’ll go check for damage.” He turned to walk away, but paused. “Thank you, Trevor.”

Trevor smiled lamely. “Yeah. ‘Course, mate.”

Chris gifted him a small, genuine grin and passed behind him, brushing a hand over Trevor’s lower back as he went.

To Trevor’s credit, he didn’t collapse on the spot.

It was getting a bit ridiculous, actually. Whatever schoolboy crush this had started as was rapidly spiraling into something far more dangerous.

On top of that, Chris had finally realized that it was alright for him to initiate contact, and he was…relentless. He was subtle about it, of course, but it was constant and gentle and it stunned him every time. Every lighting note was punctuated with a nudge of his foot under the table, every request accompanied by a light brush of fingers across his wrist.

There was this thing he did whenever Trevor stood behind him at his desk. He’d be fussing with some papers that Trevor wouldn’t bother to read, chattering on about his latest insane idea. He’d pose a question, leaning back, shoulders brushing Trevor’s hand where it was braced against the back of his chair, his head tilted ever so invitingly—

Christ. Trevor knocked his head against the metal beam in front of him, slipping his headphones back over his ears and praying for some goddamn focus. It didn’t last.

Without his permission, his eyes slid over to the edge of the stage, where Chris berated a bashful Max and Dennis over the shattered remains of a prop vase. Trevor couldn’t hear what was being said, but he didn’t need to. Chris was gesturing wildly, shoulders raised, eyes blazing.

Something soft collided with the back of his head, and he recoiled.

Annie appeared next to him, retrieving her coat from the floor by Trevor’s feet. She smirked knowingly, waggling her eyebrows, and Trevor flipped her off. Annie sauntered away, probably to go bother Vanessa, and Trevor looked back towards the wings. Chris had disappeared, and Dennis was making a poor attempt at sweeping up the broken glass.

Trevor sighed, putting down his hammer, and grabbed another broom.

(..)

“Which episode has been your favorite so far, do you think?”

Trevor frowned at Annie from across the table. There Is No Escape had wrapped a few hours before, and they’d been lucky enough to escape with minimal injuries. In celebration, the two of them had taken themselves to the pub. They’d been steadily drinking for an hour, and Trevor was starting to float.

“What?”

”Your favorite to film, Trev. You’ve gotta have at least one.”

”Uh. This one. Definitely this one.”

A catlike smile spread across her face. “Oh, really? Why is that?”

Trevor fumbled for his words. “Th’ sets. They were mostly simple. And I know the suspension thing didn’t exactly work, but it was a good experiment.”

”And?”

“The fuck you mean, and?”

Annie leaned across the table. ”What else did you like about it? Surely not just the sets.”

”Well. Um. I’m glad we didn’t have any A&E visits this time around. That seems pretty out of the ordinary for us. And it wasn’t a lot of work for me during the show, I guess. A man needs a break, sometimes.”

She stared disapprovingly at him, unconvinced.

Trevor tried to hold firm. He really did. Unfortunately, Annie Twilloil is a determined and unstoppable beast, and he had a feeling she’d pry it out of him somehow. Also, Trevor was two and a half pints in, and notoriously loose-lipped under the influence.

He buried his face in his hands. “…His fuckin’ arms, An.”

Annie cackled, and quickly ordered another round.

(..)

“Trevor. Trev. Oi.”

Trevor’s eyes were glassy, focused somewhere in the general direction of the television screen. Chris nudged his arm, and he turned his head quickly enough to give himself whiplash.

“Right. Uh. What?” Trevor blinked rapidly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Chris snickered. “The food. What do you want?”

Trevor coughed. “Drunken noodles, thanks. Oh, and those lettuce wraps.”

Chris tapped away at his phone with a hum, settling back into the couch cushions. Trevor had been a little distracted since they’d started their review of the No Escape broadcast, but Chris didn’t think too much on it. Once their order was in, he dropped his phone on the table and hit play.

Trevor had his notebook open, already scribbling something with his usual intensity. Trevor wrote quickly and with very little care for legibility; he always ended up dictating his notes to Chris anyway, so he didn’t mind. He tapped his pencil against his lips, glaring down at his paper, and Chris dragged his eyes back to the screen.

A few minutes in, the tip of his pencil breaks.

“Oh hell, will you pass me the—“

“Yup.” Trevor didn’t even look up, grabbing a spare pen from the coffee table and holding it out to him. Chris rolled his eyes, grabbing the pen and trying not to grin.

They were quiet, for the most part. Trevor would make the occasional rude joke and Chris would smile, or one of them would ask a quiet question. Their delivery arrived at one point and they shoveled in bites of food between frantic note taking, small packages of sauces and rice and noodles scattered over the table.

When Jonathan appeared on screen for the second time in his phone booth, Trevor and Chris scoffed in unison. They met each others’ eyes for a second. Trevor snorted, and Chris couldn’t help but giggle. The scene quickly devolved into a riot of laughter, two grown men cackling uncontrollably on Trevor’s worn, squishy couch. Through it all, his gaze never left Trevor’s face, utterly mesmerized. Trevor’s nose crinkled when he laughed, a brilliant, wheezing thing that ran through his whole body, and Chris was so smitten.

How he hadn’t figured that out sooner was baffling.

At some point during their third watch-through, Chris turned to ask Trevor about the inflatable muscle suit and found his stage manager sound asleep, head lolled back against the top of the couch.

For a moment, Chris considered waking him, but he quickly decided otherwise. Trevor was a live wire when he was awake, energy always being spent one way or another. Even when he was relaxing, he was always picking at his shitty black nail polish, chewing on pencils, some part of him in constant motion. That electrical current is quieted when he sleeps, and the stillness of his body feels both foreign and incredibly precious.

Chris stared for a long time.

Eventually, he made himself stand up and grab a blanket from Trevor’s armchair. He settled it carefully over Trevor’s body, hands lingering over his shoulders. He must have sat down too roughly, though, because Trevor began to tip over from his seated position. Chris barely had the time to turn and try to catch him before Trevor fully landed on top of him, pressing him down into the couch cushions and effectively trapping Chris beneath his torso.

Chris froze. Trevor didn’t wake up, but Chris was worried that any sort of movement would disturb him. This was the most physical contact he’d experienced in ages, and it set every nerve ending ablaze.

With anyone else, Chris would have shoved them away instantly, without regret. His boundaries had been fairly strict for the last few years, but Trevor had wormed his way into Chris’s life and completely overrun his usual protocol. His friendship was both terrifying and enlightening. He made touch reassuring rather than uncomfortable, and he was cautious about it. He never pushed Chris too far, tried not to surprise him too much, and he was always, always gentle.

This, however, was different.

Trevor was usually fairly careful with Chris, but now he had his full body draped across Chris’s frame, and it was strangely comforting. Something about the weight made him feel secure, stable.

Trevor shifted in his sleep, settling his face into the side of Chris’s chest and throwing an arm across his stomach with a quiet hum.

Good lord. Chris’s face burned, but he didn’t dare tense up. He focused on the rise and fall of pressure as Trevor breathed, the slight twitch of his fingers brushing against Chris’s waist.

Chris realized that his hands were still hovering, frozen in disbelief. He slowly, carefully set one between Trevor’s shoulders, and received a contented exhale in return.

The gentlemanly thing to do would be to wake Trevor up, to laugh and brush it off, but Chris was always a bit of a selfish bastard.

He leaned up to adjust the pillow behind him for a little more neck support, straining for the remote to continue the episode. It was just out of his reach.

Cursing himself, he draped a hand over his eyes, and before long, followed Trevor into sleep.

(..)

When Trevor began to wake up, all he could feel was warm.

His arm was at a bit of an odd angle, but he was comfortable. He rubbed his face against the soft pillow under him, and felt it move. His eyes flew open.

Gray t-shirt. Bony hips under his stomach.

Oh. Shit.

Trevor quickly lifted his head, and his mouth dropped open.

Chris’s arms were slung around his waist, head tilted off to one side. That line between his brows had eased, lips parted slightly, and Trevor thought he surely must be losing it.

If you’d told him months before that he’d end up cuddling with Chris Bean for a whole night, he would have laughed you out of the room.

They’d gotten tangled up during the night, legs entwined, and Trevor tried to remove himself as slowly and delicately as he could. It was a difficult, painfully long endeavor, but he managed to stand up without disturbing Chris too much.

Breathing heavily, he sat on the floor next to the couch, unable to do much besides stare at Chris’s sleeping face in complete awe. The pit in his chest was infuriating, and every day he questioned why Chris had ended up as the object of his affections. It was simple, really. He was easily the most confusing, frustrating, ridiculous, beautiful man Trevor had ever met. He didn’t stand a chance.

A tuft of hair had slipped down over Chris’s forehead, tickling the bridge of his nose as he breathed. He slowly lifted it back into place, careful not to brush Chris’s skin.

Fuck, Trevor loved him.

That thought was too much for him to handle, and he quickly retreated to his kitchen, desperately making coffee as if the careful routine would calm him down. It didn’t.

Shuffling footsteps approached once the coffee maker started beeping, and Trevor whipped around in a way he hoped was nonchalant. It wasn’t.

“Morning.” Chris mumbled from the entrance to the kitchen. He rubbed at his eyes, his hair sticking up in five different directions, his t-shirt rumpled. Trevor wanted to sling an arm around his neck and press their faces together. He wanted to fiddle with the hem of his shirt while their noses brushed. He wanted to taste that laugh.

He didn’t do any of those things. With some kind of godly restraint, Trevor glued his hands to the kitchen island. “Two sugars?”

Chris nodded blearily with a grateful smile, the one that curled up on one side. His realest smile. It was a treasure.

Trevor turned back to the machine before he did anything rash, and they drank their coffee together in comfortable silence.

The knot in his lungs didn’t ease once Chris left his flat. He groaned into a pillow, and called Annie.

Chapter Text

“Here you are, mate.”

Trevor plopped a steaming cup of takeaway coffee on Chris’s makeshift desk. Chris looked up at him briefly with a nod, and gave Trevor a quick squeeze on the arm as he turned back to his paperwork. He resisted the urge to sigh like a swooning maiden.

Chris handed him a small packet of paper without looking, flipping madly through a notepad. “Max’s play. I don’t think I’m involved, and I don’t have the time to look it over—“

”I’ve got it.”

”I know you’ve already got a lot on your plate, but if you could just handle—“

”Chris. I’ve got it.”

Chris paused in his blabbering and gave him a grateful smile, one which Trevor returned stiffly. He cracked his neck and leaned against the table, pulling out his egg sandwich and starting to dig in. Chris knocked back a massive swig of coffee and turned back to his work.

In preparation for the drama festival, Chris had seemingly lost his mind. He’d constructed a flimsy little setup in the audience so he could work and observe in “the most efficient way possible,” which had only seemed to make him more anxious and controlling. He was constantly making commentary, shouting out orders or providing lines or just babbling about nothing at all. He rarely left his post during rehearsals except to participate or to correct someone’s staging.

Trevor looked up subtly from the script in his hands and examined his friend. Chris had opted for a long-sleeve jumper today (which was probably for the best, for everyone’s sakes. Trevor wasn’t sure how much more his fragile heart could handle). The circles under his eyes were deeper than usual, and his hair was a mess. Trevor wondered what time he’d left the theater the night before. He‘d thought that giving the other society members more work would have eased some of Chris’s load, but it appears to have done the opposite. Relinquishing control only made him more stressed; there were infinitely more moving pieces this time around, and he couldn’t possibly keep a hold of them all.

Trevor looked over the table before him. An empty mug of tea, a few energy drinks. A small granola bar lay half eaten at the side, but it was surrounded by various forms of caffeine, no protein in sight.

Trevor tore his sandwich in two and held it out to Chris. His director took it without thinking, only seeming to notice what it was when it was halfway to his mouth.

Chris frowned questioningly at the food in his hand. His eyes turned to Trevor. “What—“

Trevor raised an eyebrow at him, and nodded his head meaningfully at the desk.

Chris grimaced. “Right. Thank you.”

They ate together in silence, broken only by occasional shuffling noises from on stage, and Trevor moved on to Vanessa’s plan. Hers was meticulously outlined, as detailed as she could get when it came to an improvisational piece.

He read over her scripted lines and couldn’t stifle a snort.

Chris looked up at him. “What was that?”

”Nothing. It’s…nothing.” He covered his smirk with the back of his hand.

“Trevor.”

”Please tell me you’ll be in primary colors.”

“Oh, I see. Judging us now, are you?”

“No, I’m—”

Chris rolled his eyes lightheartedly. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Improv is a good exercise, and it’s enjoyable. You should try it some time.”

Trevor scoffed. “Have you seen me on stage? And that’s with a script!”

“It’s fun.”

“I think you mean ‘fun-tastic’.”

Chris smacked his arm with a stack of papers, but his eyes were playful, and Trevor did his best to hide what was probably stupid, dopey grin in the remainder of his sandwich.

(..)

“Sorry mate, just a few more.“

“Fucking hell—“

“Easy, easy…“

One of Trevor’s hands rubbed soothing circles on Chris’s back as the other splashed water into his eyes, the sound of the stream thundering in his ears. It stung like hell, and he tried to focus on the constant pressure on his spine instead of the searing pain in his face. The faucet stopped.

Chris slowly rose to his feet, breathing heavily. Trevor examined his eyes, nudging Chris’s chin upwards towards the yellow light in the backstage bathroom. He flinched away from it, and Trevor hissed apologetically through his teeth.

Trevor grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the residual water on his face. “I think that’s as good as we’ll get.”

“Fine,” Chris sighed, straining to hear any sort of cue from the stage. He blinked a few times and winced. “God, that hurts.”

Trevor’s lips tightened. “Fucking tear gas. Chris, I swear to god, I’m gonna—“

A bout of applause sounded from down the hall, and Chris shot up. “Shit.“

Trevor looked him up and down one last time. “Alright for now?”

”Yeah.”

”Go.” Trevor put a paper towel in his hand and shoved him towards the door. Chris could only hope no one had gotten themselves killed while he was gone.

(..)

Trevor heard the bang from backstage.

He had been angrily scrubbing at the paint on his second favorite pair of boots, luminescent green stuck in every crack. That sound resonated through the building, and his stomach plummeted.

He couldn’t have made it to the stage faster. He stumbled past the curtain, eyes flying over the cast to identify the danger. The cast was scattered. Max was right in front of him, shielding Dennis’s eyes. Sandra was helping Chris down from the cocoon, hands flying about frantically, and Annie and Jonathan were shouting at Robert. Shit.

He jogged past Max.

“What the fuck just happened?”

Max’s face was pallid. “Robert shot Chris.”

“What.”

He beelined for the man in question, who was propped against the makeshift platform they’d constructed for the cocoon. He was gripping his right shoulder, his skin pale, his eyes wild. Small rivulets of red slipped through his fingers.

Trevor’s hands hovered over him in a panic. “Come on, mate. Sit down.” Chris didn’t respond, and Trevor guided him to the floor as gently as he could. “Sandra, call an ambulance.”

Sandra nodded quickly and ran to the wings for her purse.

”Annie—“ Trevor cut himself off. Annie was raging at Robert a few feet away, unlikely to hear him. “Shit. Vanessa, I need the first aid bin.”

”The- right, the red one?”

”Yes. Quickly.”

Vanessa disappeared after Sandra.

Trevor‘s attention had never wavered from Chris, who was leaning against the platform with glassy eyes. He quickly removed that stupid caterpillar hat and as many of the outer layers of Chris’s costume as he could. Bracing himself, he pried Chris’s hand away from his shoulder, tore open the fabric and cursed under his breath. It wasn’t a graze. The bullet had fully entered his arm, and his ridiculous green sleeve was turning brown all the way down his arm. Trevor could almost hear his heartbeat in his ears. He put pressure on the wound with one hand, patting at the opposite shoulder with the other.

“Chris, can you look at me?”

No movement. Shock, then. He carefully pulled Chris’s face in line with his own, but the man’s eyes seemed to look right through him. They struggled to focus. Fuck.

He hadn’t been paying attention. He let his guard down. He hadn’t been watching the stage, hadn’t been watching his crew, and now…

His throat was getting tighter, and his hands trembled. He took a slow, measured breath, and it didn’t really help.

Sandra arrived back on stage with Vanessa, the latter gripping a large plastic box with shaking hands.

Trevor gritted his teeth. “Annie. I need you.”

A few feet away, Annie finally paused in her tirade, stomping over and ripping open the box. Her fingers flew over the various packages and bottles, and Vanessa crouched down to help.

Trevor turned his gaze to Robert. The roaring in his ears grew louder.

”What the hell were you thinking.”

Robert’s face was unsettlingly blank, eyes wide. “I thought they were blanks.”

”You thought.”

”The vendor said they were blanks—“

”You didn’t think to check?”

Robert stammered, color rising into his cheeks. ”I don’t need to be questioned by you.“

Trevor leapt to his feet. “Yes! You do! You just shot someone!”

Robert took a threatening step towards him. “Obviously, I didn’t mean for it to—“

“You pointed a gun, and fired it.”

“He startled me!”

”That is absolutely no reason to—“

Robert groaned. ”God, will you quit it with the righteous bullshit?“ Trevor felt the rest of the cast go still, but Robert didn’t stop there. “Just because you‘re always trotting at his heels like a sad, desperate puppy doesn’t mean we all have to.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you—“

“He might as well have you on a leash—“

Jonathan managed to catch Trevor‘s fist before it connected with Robert’s nose, and shoved him back towards Chris. “Please. Focus on what you can fix, Trev.” His eyes were pleading, and Trevor took a measured breath or two.

He sent one more deadly look in Robert’s direction before joining the others on the floor. Sandra was still on the phone, whispering madly. Annie gestured at the first aid box, and he grabbed a piece of gauze. He traded places with her, pressing down on Chris’s shoulder and trying not to gag as the blood seeped through.

Chris’s eyes finally landed on him, but he was still a bit distant. His hand flapped weakly at Trevor’s forearm. “Trev—“

”Easy, mate. You’re gonna be alright.”

Chris started grabbing at the hand on his arm, his movements growing sharper. “The dance, I need to— I need— Oh.” His eyes widened as a burst of blood shone through the white material, and the color drained from his face.

”Don’t look at it.” Trevor grabbed him by the chin and forced Chris to look into his eyes. “Don’t fucking look at it. Look at me. Sandra, where is the ambulance?”

“Any minute now.” She sounded near tears.

Trevor wanted so desperately to be gentle. He wanted to check on his cast, to give everyone a moment to breathe, but Chris was bleeding and his eyes were scared and Trevor needed to fix that, somehow, and there wasn’t room for anything else.

Annie whispered a string of violent curses. “We need a towel, something thicker. He’s really going through it, Trev.” She pulled off the gauze to replace it, and Chris spasmed, drunkenly attempting to help or hinder her. Trevor scrambled to stop him, but it was too late.

Chris’s entire body slackened as he saw the open wound. “Oh.” Any remaining warmth in his face vanished, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

”Oh, shit—“ Trevor managed to get a hand under his neck, supporting him around the shoulders. He pulled Chris’s limp body halfway across his legs, trying to maneuver him into a decent position while Annie continued to fuss with his shoulder.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robert try to step closer, and Jonathan stuck an arm out to stop him. For that, he was grateful.

He patted at Chris’s cheek. “Oi. Come on, man. Wake up.” His fingers left small streaks of blood, so dark against Chris’s sheet-white skin. He felt sick.

After what felt like years (but, looking back, couldn’t have been more than a few minutes), the paramedics arrived. They headed straight for Chris, one of them stepping aside to talk to Sandra and Vanessa, the others dropping to crouch beside him.

Everything got a bit blurry at that point. They tried for a minute to take Chris from him, and he resisted until Annie put a hand on his arm and pulled him away. He didn’t let them block his way, though. He didn’t hear much, but he never let Chris leave his sight. He listened intently while they checked his vitals, counting heartbeats in his head.

Eventually, one of them stood, wiping a hand on her trousers. “We’re taking him to the hospital. Which of you are coming?”

Trevor stepped forward immediately. “I’ll ride along.”

”Are you a family member?”

Trevor bit the inside of his cheek. “Close enough.”

She nodded at him without question. “Anyone else?”

”I’ll take a car,” Sandra offered quietly. Max gave Dennis a quick hug and walked over to take his fiancé’s hand.

They lifted Chris onto a stretcher.

Trevor looked to Annie, and she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “He’ll be fine.”

Trevor exhaled shakily. “He fucking better be.”

Annie’s eyes softened knowingly. She gave him a final pat on the cheek, and he followed the parade of medical professionals out through the audience.

(..)

Chris came out of sleep slowly. He dragged himself from his dreams inch by inch, wading through foggy images, muffled shouting, rough hands holding him so gently—

His eyes opened.

His head felt like it had been filled with water. Every movement echoed in his skull, the thudding of his pulse easing as his eyes adjusted to the light.

It was probably a bad sign that he could identify a hospital room within seconds by the color of the walls. Through the haze of his swirling vision, he could make out some soft, warm light from a lamp on the bedside table and what might have been a glass of water.

He shifted slightly, and felt a twinge in his arm. Fighting against the grogginess, he raised a hand to his right shoulder. Coarse, thick bandages ran all the way to the middle of his bicep.

Huh.

Something moved beside him on the bed.

On his left side, Trevor slept silently in a plastic chair, his head pillowed in his arms on the edge of the thin mattress. His shoulders rose and fell steadily, face turned away from Chris. A sketchbook was left open at the foot of the bed, displaying half-finished sketches of the set for Annie’s farce in ballpoint pen. His fingers twitched slightly every now and then, reaching for something in his dreams. Chris was transfixed.

Trevor huffed in his sleep, settling deeper into the crook of his elbow. Chris’s chest grew impossibly tighter, his drug-addled mind unable to stifle the furious stream of affection that ran through him. He wanted to stretch across that tiny distance and brush their fingers together, to run his hand over that downy head of hair.

However, the body had its needs, and Chris was suddenly overcome with incurable thirst. He turned his head to the glass of water with great effort, and began the grueling task of lifting his arm.

Whatever movement he made must have jostled Trevor, though, and the man shot up like a rocket.

His eyes were red and wild. ”I’m up— I’m, yeah, I’m up, what’s— Chris. You- hey.”

Trevor ran a hand down his face, his hair sticking up a little on one side. It was terribly endearing. Chris wanted to reach up and brush it down, to run the pad of his thumb down the curve of Trevor’s cheek and press it against the lines on the edge of his mouth until they eased.

Drugs always make him far too honest for his own good. He felt as though he were seconds away from spelling it all out right there. He wondered if the heart monitor in the corner would translate it for him. It’d certainly be easier than trying to verbalize whatever mess of sappy words was building in his throat. Sloppy. Unrefined. Anything he said always came out ugly, anyways. Best not to try.

”Hey,” he croaked instead.

The cloudiness of sleep in Trevor’s eyes finally cleared. “How are you feeling? Come on then, sit up. Watch the shoulder, just—“ He got a hand on Chris’s back, guiding him upwards slowly. “What can I get you?”

Chris nodded over to the water, and Trevor understood immediately. Of course he did.

After he’d been sufficiently hydrated, Trevor flitting about the whole time, Chris sighed and settled back into the pillow. They’d given him a decent one, this time. Not too firm.

As he sat back down, Trevor’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, I should get the nurse. Right. Uh—“

”Please, no,” Chris groaned, scrunching his eyes tightly closed. “Just a second of peace. Just you.”

Trevor didn’t respond to that, and Chris opened his eyes just in time to catch an utterly agonized expression on his friend’s face. Before he could comment on it, it vanished. In its place was something determined, something firm but decidedly caring.

He looked away for a moment. “Is everyone alright?”

Trevor sighed. “Yeah, thank fucking god. No other serious injuries. We’re all absolutely bloody terrified, though.”

Chris leaned his head into the pillow, examining Trevor’s face. His eyes were a little more sunken than usual, lips raw in the way that meant he’d been chewing on them. Trevor’s shoulders were turned inward, and he picked at a hangnail on one of his hands.

He wondered what they had done, after— after it happened. Everything had gone a little fuzzy at a certain point, and he had flashes of Trevor’s panicked eyes and a trembling, constant voice that could have been Sandra or Annie.

”I don’t remember getting here. Did someone drive us?”

“We called for an ambulance. Everyone was in a bit of a shock, but you got the worst of it.” Trevor tentatively reached a hand forward, and Chris grabbed it firmly. His palm received a squeeze. “It was really scary, Chris. You went all ghostly on me, it was like you weren’t even there. Like you were miles away. And we all just felt so unprepared. There isn’t normally that much— Well, it just— It threw us for a loop, mate.”

”I’m alright, Trev.”

His eyes narrowed. “You just had a bullet removed from your fucking shoulder.”

”As fine as I can be in a situation like this, then.”

Trevor scooted his chair closer, his other hand wrapping around their linked ones. “You scared the shit out of me, Chris. Out of all of us.” He kept his gaze downward for a moment, brows drawn together. When he looked back up, his face was all too soft and pained and—

The door creaked open.

Sandra strode in quietly, her eyes widening when she noticed Chris’s upright position.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

Trevor shot to his feet. “I’m gonna run to the loo real quick, if that’s alright.” He looked to Chris for some sort of permission.

Chris nodded. Trevor looked him up and down once more before practically bolting out of the room.

Sandra watched him solemnly, and returned her sharp gaze to Chris.

”You better figure that out, and quickly.”

Chris swallowed, and it hurt. ”I really don’t know what you mean.”

Sandra’s frown deepened. “He went a little crazy, Chris. Not a little. Quite mad. He wouldn’t sit down, didn’t stop moving until they let him in the room.”

Chris couldn’t help the hollow exhale at that, and Sandra took pity on him.

She sat in the bedside chair with a sigh, folding her hands in her lap neatly.

”I know you care about him. I really do. Just…be careful.”

”Of course.”

Sandra’s lips tightened. “I mean it.”

Half of him wanted to question her further, to shake her by the shoulders and demand to know what she was seeing, to look at Trevor through her perceptive eyes and understand, somehow, what it was that man was thinking. The other half wanted to shrink beneath the thin sheets of the bed and go dormant for a thousand years.

His head spun. Whatever strange limbo the two of them were in was almost certainly safer than crossing the threshold, then tipping over into the abyss. He thought about private, amused glances from across a busy stage, or the way Trevor would get his attention with a brush down his arm, or that time he’d tightened a leather bracelet with his teeth—

And then Trevor walked back in, his smirk weary but fond, and Chris stopped thinking for a while.

Chapter Text

“A live horse? It’s a bloody radio play!”

“Sandra wants us to ‘demonstrate authenticity’ and provide an ‘organic psychological environment.’”

“I don’t think those words mean anything, Chris.”

“Neither does her script. We just barely have room for it in the budget, if we lose the idea of a real till for Dennis’s play.”

“…I don’t think he’ll mind.”

(..)

Chris all but leapt from the car.

Trevor hadn’t spoken for the entirety of the drive, but Chris had been too worried to focus on it. He hoped Trevor was following him.

The ambulance had arrived at the hospital before them, and all of their castmates were already inside. Chris pushed through the doors, trying to calm his shaking hands, and approached the desk.

”Chris Bean. I’m here for…well. There’s a lot of them.”

The attendant sighed.

In the middle of his tense explanation, he became aware of Trevor standing at his shoulder. His friend’s eyes were fixed somewhere on the floor. The nurse asked him a few questions as well, and he answered them quietly and succinctly. He worried at a hangnail on his left thumb, never looking up.

They eventually found themselves in a pair of stiff-backed chairs, exiled to the waiting room until the rest of the cast was fit for visitors. They didn’t speak. Trevor stared at the ceiling. Chris focused his eyes on the space between his feet.

Another commotion came several minutes after they sat down, and Chris was beckoned up to the desk again for Jonathan’s sake. His stomach roiled. He’d been alone, scrambling through the set pieces without proper rehearsal, a faulty fly rig—

Just the leg. Just his leg. Thank god, just the leg.

When he returned to the waiting room a few minutes later, Trevor was hunched over with his head in his hands.

Chris frowned as he approached. “Trevor?”

He got no response. His brow furrowed furthur.

”Trevor.” He dropped a cautious hand on the man’s shoulder, and his eyes widened. Trevor was trembling silently, shoulders quaking without rhythm. Chris immediately fell to a knee in front of him.

He pulled Trevor’s hands away from his face, and his friend flinched. Chris felt his gut sink at the twisted, hunted glaze that had washed over Trevor’s face.

Trevor fumbled around a few words, not making eye contact. ”I- uh. Mngh. I just-“ He exhaled shakily, curling further in on himself.

Chris braced his hands on the arms of Trevor’s chair, trying to will his eyes back upwards.

“Breathe, Trevor. Slowly.”

”I can’t—“

”I need you to.”

Trevor tried to gasp in some air, but his lungs stuttered halfway through and the failure only seemed to distress him more.

”Fuck—“

”It’s okay.”

”It’s not— It’s not, Chris.” Trevor dragged a shaking hand down his own face. “It’s all my stupid fuckin’ fault. I was distracted by— who fucking knows, really, and I fucked up and gave them the tranquilizers, and because of that not only did they get hurt but if we’d been there to help Jonathan, maybe he’d be alright too— Fuck. Shit.“

His head dropped between his shoulders, and Chris fumbled for something to say.

Trevor was right. It was a dangerous slip up. But Chris recognizes a guilty spiral when he sees one (he’s had enough of his own at this point) and he knew that it would be counterproductive to lecture him at that moment. This was a lesson for a later time. He set his jaw.

”Trevor, another deep breath. Please.”

Trevor tried again, inhaling in starts and stops, his hands tightening on the frayed fabric at his knees like he was trying to hold himself still.

Chris sifted through his mind for all of the little things Trevor did to calm him down when he was in his own head. Trevor was first and foremost a tactile creature, so Chris did the first thing that came to mind.

He slowly reached for Trevor’s right hand, pressing his thumb firmly into his palm, just above his life line. Trevor’s fingers spasmed slightly.

With his other hand, Chris reached up gradually, giving him every opportunity to pull away, and laid a hand on the nape of Trevor’s neck. Chris found spots for his fingers between individual vertebrae, and rubbed a circle into Trevor’s palm.

Trevor’s shoulders slumped almost immediately, his body still trembling.

“How could I have been so careless?”

His forehead dropped gently onto Chris’s shoulder, and Chris quickly gathered him into a hug. His tremors shook them both the whole time, but Chris didn’t react. He held firmly, stubbornly, like Trevor had done for him.

A crumbling, shaken Trevor was unreasonably terrifying. Deceptively sweet, unendingly snarky Trevor who was so steadfast, such a constant support in the fragile foundations of Chris’s psyche, practically shattered in his hands. All Chris could do was try to remember the small comforts Trevor had offered him when he needed them, and do his best to replicate. It felt cheap.

He tried to keep his breath even and smooth, stifling the hitch when Trevor’s nose brushed his collarbone through his shirt.

Chris found his words. “Not- not careless, Trevor. Distracted.“

Trevor leaned back slightly and coughed out a mirthless chuckle. Chris shook his head and continued.

“We know you care. We do. I’m obviously frustrated, and I’m sure they will be too, but you didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt and we all know that. You feel bad about it. Learn from this mistake. Everyone will be okay. Don’t let it happen again.“

Trevor’s eyes fluttered closed. He still drew forced breaths.

Chris felt a swelling urge to bring him closer, to prove to him somehow that he was here, that his feet were on the ground and Chris wouldn’t let him float away.

Before he could stop himself, Chris leaned forward and bumped their foreheads together, holding Trevor in place with a hand on the base of his skull.

Trevor sighed.

It was a new level of closeness, almost sharing air. Chris was stunned by how comfortable he was. He marvelled at how stabilizing it was, and could only hope that the same was true for Trevor.

That question was quickly answered as his heaving breaths started to ease, the persistent shaking of his body dulling to a soft twitch.

Trevor leaned more weight into him, and a tightness in Chris’s chest loosened. He hadn’t even noticed it up until that point, the tension behind his ribs. The relief was immense. It felt like safety.

He opened his eyes after a long minute, and Trevor’s were half-lidded, focused downwards again. Only slightly, this time. They flitted upwards and widened for a moment when he saw Chris looking back, but Trevor didn’t move. They remained like that, noses inches apart, and Trevor’s brow lowered.

He was looking for something on Chris’s face, and Chris wondered what he would find, if given the time and the correct tools. Far too much, he thought. Damning evidence.

Trevor inhaled purposefully, like he was about to speak, or maybe even—

A nurse called out for them, and Chris fell backwards onto his arse on the rubber flooring.

He cleared his throat, stumbling to his feet quickly. Trevor immediately moved to follow the nurse, and Chris followed along blankly, eyes stuck on the space between Trevor’s shoulders.

He was beginning to notice things, in the week since Sandra had dropped that bomb on him in the hospital room. Chris was now hyper-aware of the lingering looks, the way Trevor bumped their shoulders together when he laughed, trying so desperately not to read into every small act of kindness. Trevor checked in with him about meals. He stopped by Chris’s office after rehearsal to make sure he got home. They alternated coffee runs now, and Trevor always managed to slip a pastry or a treat in without prompting.

He always blamed it on Chris’s tendency towards low blood sugar. Chris couldn’t tell how much of that was the truth.

He didn’t know how to approach it. Chris had managed to convince himself that it was entirely unrealistic for Trevor to return his feelings, but Sandra had gone and opened the door and shaken something loose in his resolve. If there was any chance, any possibility—

They made it to the room.

Trevor hesitated outside the door, his hand hovering over the knob.

Chris wanted so badly to hold him, but settled for patting his shoulder. A small part of him recoiled from the sappy, weak-kneed mess he was turning into. He ignored it.

Trevor took one last steadying breath and pushed the door open.

Annie was awake, blinking slowly but otherwise intact.

Trevor paused in the doorway, taking her in. Her eyes settled on him, and she frowned.

”You stupid idiot.” Annie held her arms open, and Trevor rushed to envelop her in a hug.

Over his shoulder, Annie shot Chris a pointed look. He nodded slowly, and her groggy, tumultuous face settled a bit. She squeezed Trevor one last time, before smacking him on the shoulder and asking about her castmates.

Trevor refused to leave the hospital until each Cornley cast member had been released (apart from Jonathan, who’d need far more attention). Chris resolved to wait with him, despite Trevor’s protests.

Once he realized that Chris wasn’t budging, Trevor didn’t leave his side for the rest of the evening. Their shoulders or elbows or knees brushed wherever they sat, long periods of silence only punctuated by a nudge towards the next room.

Trevor needed this, Chris realized, just as much as he did. Chris was perfectly content, for once, to sit quietly and watch.

(..)

Play of the Week was cancelled shortly afterwards. It came as no surprise to any of them (aside from Dennis, perhaps), but it was disappointing nonetheless.

Even more so because, without the excuse of a highly demanding weekly broadcast, Chris had no reason not to attend physical therapy for his arm.

Trevor drove him there, sometimes. He picked up burgers and taunted him with the reward of bacon and secret sauce. He jeered at Chris from a bench on the side of the room, and Chris shouted half-clever remarks back at him, and didn’t realize how long he’d held a stretch until the muscle released.

Even with all of their newfound free time, they spent just as much time together as they did on set. It would feel unnatural at that point to be alone.

They had coffee together most mornings, bickering about whatever came to mind over a tiny table in the corner of the cafe. They would have dinner at one of their respective flats, and sometimes the other society members would attend but more often than not it was just the two of them, quipping and eating shitty pasta and watching horrid movies and if Chris thought about it long enough, he could almost pretend that they were—

No.

No, he shouldn’t go there. That was cruel. It wasn’t fair to Trevor to treat this like something it was not.

There was still something guarded behind Trevor’s eyes. It was precarious, their little idyllic situation, and he didn’t dare disturb it. He could wait.

He waited.