Chapter Text
Trevor may have taken things too far. This wasn’t the first time in the last month he’d had that thought, but now stood behind the fallen set of The Nativity the fact was now inescapable.
Stood was probably a generous term for what Trevor was doing; he was more leant awkwardly on the desk, avoiding placing any weight on his throbbing foot as he tried to set down the electronics. He’d briefly considered grabbing a chair, but that had seemed more effort (and pain) than it was worth and he didn’t trust any of the props to bear his weight.
Someone should probably take a look at his foot, when they had the time. But Annie was fussing at a shirtless Robert, checking him for burns. And Chris was at the other side of the studio, being bollocked by Ben- the unlucky sod who had the misfortune to be their BBC babysitter for the evening.
It had originally been Trevor that Ben had cornered; he was the one who cut the fire alarm wires after all, but Ben had barely got the second sentence out before Chris had appeared as if summoned by some sort of directoral protective instinct.
The first words out of his mouth had been to remind Ben that he was the director and Trevor had been operating under his instruction. Trevor had been shooed away, and was now left sneakily observing the two.
It had been at least fifteen minutes, anyone else would have probably wilted under the onslaught, but Chris met it chin up, face steady. He’d given up trying to defend his actions around ten minutes in and now simply seemed to be waiting it out. If Trevor still wasn’t so irritated at Chris, he’d probably be feeling more fond.
Trevor wasn’t the only one watching. Max, Sandra and Vanessa kept stealing glances from where they were folding costumes and packing props, Dennis, despite helping them, had yet to notice Chris’ absence. Robert had chosen to sit so Chris was in his eyeline and was making no subtly of watching, an almost gleeful look on his face. Jonathan had disappeared to the bathroom with a toothbrush. Comforting a naked, vomiting Jonathan had definitely been one of the weirder portions of the night; the eyeliner had given the whole thing a surreal edge.
Trevor finished the electronic shutdown and, ignoring his foot, started to lower the star to the floor. The words ‘bugger off’ in his writing stared up at him, accusingly. Yeah, he’d probably went too far. He wondered what Chris’ face had looked like when he’d seen it. Had he been angry? Sad? Resigned? He hadn’t reacted at all tonight in front of the cameras, despite the others being visibly displeased.
It hurt. A month later and those words spat in the car still hurt. And he’d swallowed down that hurt and took Chris into the hospital because Chris needed help and if he didn’t the whole stupid argument was for nothing.
And then he’d taken Chris home the next day, still raw and feeling like one wrong word from Chris would unleash a torrent of anger and hurt, words he’d say and later regret. Anything to alleviate his own hurt.
And then there’d been no Chris.
Just a slew of emails as Chris tried to secure sponsorship. Instructions for The Nativity : professional, impersonal. Trevor had wanted Chris to say something, anything to breach the distance. Wanted to hear that he hadn’t meant it, that he was sorry. He wanted to tell Chris that he didn’t get to tell him what he could and couldn’t care about. He wanted Chris to see exactly how much Trevor did.
And then Chris had been there, one morning on set, he’d turned to Trevor and Trevor just couldn’t. So he left, he avoided, he stopped reading Chris’ messages.
Chris had crossed a line, Trevor was allowed to be angry.
Chris hadn’t pushed it any further, staying distant. He’d eventually settled on writing instructions on props for Trevor to paint over. He’d done some but not others. At the time he’d been filled with bitter vindication, he’d wanted the play to be shambolic with him only sticking to his job. He wanted Chris to see how much he did, how much effort and energy he put in. He wanted Chris to fail without him.
But now…. He’d taken it too far. As soon as the audience had seen the argument on the desert backdrop he’d felt no satisfaction, just shame. He’d deliberately ruined the performance. And he hated that part of him was very aware that Chris, who held the Drama Society so high in his priorities, would never forgive that.
Once he’d avoided Chris once, it’d just seemed easier to keep doing it. To put off whatever messy words that needed to be said. If he didn’t talk to Chris then he could still imagine that the words out of Chris’ mouth would be an apology and that everything would go back to normal. Trevor wanted everything to be as it used to be, he missed Chris and was angry that he missed him. Angry that Chris wouldn’t just accept help that was offered and angry that Chris insisted on starting an argument over Robert. Angry that Chris thought so little of his and Trevor’s friendship.
What if Chris had meant it? What if Trevor had misread their closeness. What if his closest one of his closest friends genuinely just saw their relationship as a purely professional one. What if Trevor was Chris’ emergency contact simply because it made sense to the director that the stage manager was. What if Chris hadn’t apologised because he genuinely didn’t think he needed to. Or worse, he’d apologise as a perfunctory gesture, like you’d do to a colleague after a work dispute.
It was a stupid thought. A stupid worry. Chris cared, and Chris knew Trevor cared. But it still came back. What if, what if, what if.
Why hadn’t Chris pushed? Why hadn’t he apologised?
Trevor finished wrapping the star’s wire, foot still hurting like hell. There was not enough of the wire to obscure the words exchanged between Chris and him. If he was Chris he’d probably find some poetic metaphor in that. But he was Trevor, and he just found it sad; he wanted to erase all evidence of his and Chris’ argument. To bury it deep and ignore it forever.
Footsteps startled him out of his thoughts as Chris, freshly berated, strode over clutching a small pile of four DVD cases- the recordings of The Nativity - and a folded chair. Trevor eyed his gait suspiciously, remembering how Sandra’s bowling bowl had hit him in the foot. His own foot throbbed in sharp, aching sympathy.
There was a creak as Chris unfolded the chair behind Trevor. “Sit,” Chris said, levelling Trevor with a stern look.
Trevor sat, trying to pretend this wasn’t the first direct word he’d heard from Chris all month, excluding the earlier fire alarms. It was a relief getting the weight off his foot, although it still hurt like it was pressed under a hot grill.
Chris had everyone’s full attention immediately.
“Where’s Jonathan?” Chris asked, presumably having counted them all like errant ducklings.
Jonathan skidded round the corner, “Here, I’m here. Sorry, got stuck in the bathroom.”
Chris blinked, had he looked this tired all evening? Trevor tried to recall if he’d looked at Chris at all before the play. He’d looked tired and cross during the first fire alarm, but Trevor had put that down to the fire alarm blaring. The fire alarm he’d not known about because he was deliberately ignoring Chris’ emails.
“Right,” Chris said, “I appreciate all of your effort, although tonight didn’t go perfectly-”
Robert snorted from the floor.
“-we did at least finish the play, despite all of the,” Chris waved his hand at the set in general, “problems.”
Chris turned to Annie, “How is he?” Chris asked, gesturing at Robert.
“I’m right here,” grumbled Robert as he pulled a t-shirt over his head.
Chris shot Robert a poisonous look, which thankfully shut him up.
Annie said, “He’s somehow escaped with no burns, just bumps and bruises from his fall.”
Robert was always a jammy bastard. By rights those fireworks should have landed him in hospital, but here he was- not even a single burn to show for his pyrotechnic thieving ways. Trevor didn’t want him in hospital, but it seemed unfair that he escaped without even a small burn as retribution.
Chris nodded, turned and eyed up the rest, “Apart from Trevor, any other injuries?”
“Nope”
“No”
“No, Chris”
“Good, I don’t think there’s any point in going into detail about what went wrong tonight now, we’re all too tired for an extensive debrief. Go home, get some rest. Have a watch of the recording. And we’ll discuss anything that needs discussing tomorrow, such as fire evacuation plans,” he shot a look at Sandra and Max, who both looked suitably apologetic, “or suitable use of pyrotechnics.” Chris transferred his glare to Robert, who shrank back a bit.
Chris passed out the recordings; one to Robert, one to Sandra and one to Annie. And with a chorus of ‘goodnights’ the cast departed, unusually quickly. Leaving Chris and Trevor alone, with one recording between them.
Chris stared at the DVD case, “Should have got another one,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. Trevor looked down at his foot, it certainly felt as though it should have doubled in size, throbbing as much as it was.
Chris let out a harsh breath of air. Trevor glanced over at him. He was looking at Trevor, shamefaced.
This was it. Mouth dry, Trevor waited for whatever Chris would say. Whatever would break this month of silence. This month of no Chris.
“I’m sorry,” Chris said, “what I said was out of line, I shouldn’t have said it and I’d completely understand if you wanted nothing more to do with me. I’m so sorry. I was so busy trying to be a good friend to Robert that I forgot to be a good friend to you.”
Chris glanced to the floor, cheeks flushed, before looking back at Trevor with effort.
“My behaviour was inexcusable. I should never have snapped at you for helping me.” Chris said stiffly, as if he was afraid that Trevor would yell at him in response.
Far from the man who’d weathered Ben’s bollocking undaunted earlier, Chris looked like a strong wind could blow him over. Had he lost weight or was Trevor just no longer used to Chris’ presence?
Chris looked guilty, ashamed; standing and waiting for Trevor to pass judgement. He didn't even seem to be breathing.
What he’d said hurt, yes, and it still hurt; but knowing that Chris was sorry, that he regretted it. That helped. That was a relief.
He apologised, he meant it. Trevor felt as though a weight had lifted.
“Thanks,” said Trevor, trying awkwardly to find some words, any words, to restore their camaraderie, “for apologising.”
Trevor had some apologies of his own to make: ignoring Chris this last month, deliberately poking at Chris’ sore spot of his relationship with Robert…
Chris relaxed a bit and dropped his gaze to Trevor’s foot, “Can I take a look at your foot? Only if you are okay with it being me, Annie can’t have gotten far if you’d rather she looked.”
“I’m fine for you to look, Chris” he said, watching Chris relax further as he knelt by Trevor’s chair.
Chris gripped Trevor’s heel and eased off Trevor’s shoe, carefully and gently. It still caused the fire in his foot to flare and Trevor gripped onto the chair tight- forcing the cry of pain down, back into his throat.
“I’m sorry for calling you Robert’s patsy.” Trevor managed, once he thought his voice would be steady again.
“It’s fine,” said Chris, carefully rolling down Trevor’s sock, the brief touches of Chris on his skin a balm against what he’d missed: Chris’ care or at least Chris’ duty, “I definitely had it coming.”
That wasn’t the point, it wasn’t a competition of who hurt who more. Trevor had said those words deliberately to hurt Chris, his own hurt wasn’t an excuse.
“It doesn’t make it ok, mate. I shouldn’t have said it at all. I’m sorry.”
Chris looked up, eyes soft as they met Trevor’s and gave a small smile, “It’s fine, you’re forgiven.”
He patted Trevor’s knee with one hand as he put the sock on the floor with the other hand. A point of contact, comfort, a touch exchanged between him and Chris. Forgiveness, easily given.
Chris hissed in sympathy as he looked at Trevor’s foot. Trevor looked down. Ah, that explained why it hurt so much. There was no need to compare it with the other foot for deformities; it was clearly swollen, with vivid looking blues and reds painted below his two biggest toes. Looking at it made it hurt more.
“I’m afraid you’re going to need a trip to the hospital.” Chris reached into the first aid kit and pulled out an instant cold pack.
Trevor groaned, hospitals in December were always hell, but there was no denying that his foot needed seen to.
Chris gently pressed the flannel wrapped cold pack against his foot. The cold bit into his foot, quelling the fires of pain a little but adding the new unpleasant sensation of too-cold alongside the throb of whatever had broken. Trevor hissed.
“Sorry, sorry” Chris said, “we need to reduce the swelling a bit, can you hold it there a second?”
“It’s fine, just hurts” Trevor said, reaching to hold it. It was suddenly very important that Chris knew that the cold wasn’t his fault. He was so recently qualified as a first aider; was Trevor his first incident with an official first aid qualification behind him? That changed things, Trevor knew, suddenly being the responsible one in accidents. Trevor’s first had been Max, crying through a head wound that had shook the cast for the rest of the week. Although as director, Chris was always the responsible one, always the first called when something went wrong.
Chris let go of the compress and pulled padding and a bandage out of the kit, setting them aside ready for when the compress was finished. Outside of the door there were faint footsteps, but nobody entered: probably a member of staff leaving for the day.
“I’m sorry for calling you a moron earlier, that was not well done of me.”
It took Trevor a second to place the incident. Remembering what had caused it; he shifted guiltily, “I’m sorry for ignoring your emails and avoiding your meetings. I should’ve known about the fire alarms.”
The end of the first alarm had seen Trevor backstage, scanning through his ignored emails from Chris. To his shame, there had been at least three about the drills. Jonathan, changing into costume, had cheerfully filled him in on the meeting he’d missed.
Chris looked at him, face serious, “Yes, well under the circumstances, given my own deplorable behaviour, it was understandable. But you could have missed any number of health and safety notifications. Miscommunication like that increases the risk to everyone.”
The pit in Trevor’s stomach that had been there since the moment he first skived off work from The Nativity grew.
“Sorry,” he whispered, ashamed. He hadn’t thought of that, he hadn’t even considered. He guiltily avoided Chris’ eye, focussing on Robert’s red hat instead.
“It’s fine, I was a prick and you wanted space. Just please don’t do it again. If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine, but please check your emails.” Chris’ voice was steady, level.
“I’m sorry for avoiding you.”
“Don’t apologise for that!” Chris’ sharp tone startled Trevor, “You had every right to want space after what I said”
He paused, running a hand over his face, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped. Just now or a month ago. It was inexcusable to have a go at you for caring. I’m sorry that I said it wasn’t your job, that I took you for granted. I’m sor-”
Trevor reached out and gripped Chris’ shoulder with his free hand. It’s fine, you’re forgiven. The first time he’d touched him since he’d shook him awake in his car a month ago. He’d missed this, the ability to touch Chris and enjoy his presence. It had been a long month without him.
There was a shuffling sound from outside the door, but Trevor was distracted from whatever it was by Chris leaning into his grip, pushing his shoulder against the palm of Trevor’s hand.
Of all the small touches he and Chris exchanged, Chris rarely leant into them, rarely prolonged them. Only when he needed the comfort and reassurance of a touch. Usually when something had gone very wrong, or when Chris’d had a proper fight with Robert or when his parents had recently been in contact.
Needing Chris closer, Trevor pulled him into a desperate hug. With him sat on a chair and Chris on the floor; it was an awkward hug, but as the warm line of Chris’ body pressed against his, as Chris’ arms gripped him almost frantically; it was perfect.
It’s fine, we’re fine. You’re forgiven, I’m forgiven. I’m sorry. We’re good.
From where his head was pressed into Trevor’s shoulder, Chris made a choked, half-suppressed sob.
Chris didn’t cry.
That wasn’t exactly true, Trevor had known Chris for years, he did cry, but it took a lot to get him to that point. Never in front of anyone, proudly suppressing any tears. Trevor could count on one hand the times he’d seen Chris break and cry, and each occasion had been horrific.
Another sob, quieter and even more suppressed.
Trevor had wanted to know that Chris cared about him. And now he did. Chris cared enough that he’d cried over Trevor’s forgiveness. What was it he’d said earlier? ‘I’d completely understand if you wanted nothing more to do with me.’ Had he been thinking that all month? Trevor had wanted assurance that Chris cared, he thought he’d wanted it. He had it now and that certainty didn’t make him happy. Instead he felt sick, guilty that it got to the point that Chris- strong, proud Chris- was reduced to tears. He had reduced him to tears. He’d made Chris cry.
Chris shook silently. Somehow, that was worse than the choked off sobs.
Trevor rubbed soothingly on Chris’ back, hoping Chris wouldn’t be offended if he acknowledged his misery. But he had to make it better, the thought of ignoring Chris, of leaving him to contain his tears on his own tasted bitter.
“It’s ok, you’re ok.” He whispered softly, and hopefully soothingly, “You’re forgiven, I’m sorry. It’s ok, it’s ok, you’re forgiven.”
He could feel Chris’ breathing against his shoulder steady slowly as he brought it under control again.
Chris pulled away, “Sorry,” he said, voice uncharacteristically unsteady.
“There’s nothing to apologise for.” Trevor’s voice was sharper than he intended and Chris’ gaze snapped to his face.
Tears had streaked through the make-up on Chris’ face, revealing a pair of dark bags under his eyes. Jesus, when was the last time he’d slept. Trevor thought of all the props and scenery he hadn’t finished- some of which he’d noticed had since been painted. He had a horrible, guilty feeling that some of this was his fault.
Chris swiped at his eyes, smearing makeup and tears across his face. He looked a mess.
“You’re meant to keep this on your foot,” he scolded lightly, picking up the compress from where it lay on the floor and pressing it gently against Trevor’s foot- inviting the cold bite once more.
Trevor debated saying sorry, but there had been enough apologies this evening. Christ, Chris had apologised for crying.
“I wanted to hug you, I needed two arms for that.” He shrugged and brushed an errant tear track from Chris’ face in apology.
Chris looked at him, something fond playing across his face, “well I want this cold pack to hug your foot, and that needs at least one hand.”
“Are you offering that hand?” Trevor asked.
A faint flush appeared on Chris’ cheeks and he shifted his weight. Almost immediately Chris’ jaw clenched. He was in pain and trying to hide it.
Abruptly Trevor felt as if ice had been dumped on him, recalling the bowling bowl that had fallen on Chris’ foot.
“How’s your foot?”
Chris looked startled, “It’s fine.”
“Chris!”
“It really is fine, it hit off my shin first. It’s just bruised. I can show you, if you want.”
Trevor grabbed the cold compress and, with one hand on the chair, eased himself onto the floor next to Chris. Fuck that hurt.
“Christ! Don’t move. You didn’t need to-”
“Hold the compress,” Trevor instructed, undoing Chris’ laces, echoing Chris’ earlier motions.
Chris set his jaw, gripped the heel of Trevor’s foot with one hand and gently pressed the compress down with the other, “I could have shown you myself.”
Trevor gently pulled his shoe off and started to remove his festive sock, “I want to make sure you’re ok, mate.”
Chris’ foot was pale, a splodge of faint red where the bowling bowl had hit. No swelling, no visible deformity. Trevor rolled up Chris’ trouser leg till he could see a matching splodge on Chris’ shin.
“Any difficulty walking?” Trevor asked.
“Not after the initial impact”
It did look like it was just a bruise, but just to be sure Trevor removed Chris’ other shoe and sock to compare feet. Yep, no deformity. That was a relief, Chris was fine, he was uninjured. That was more than Trevor had hoped for when he’d seen Chris continue to play a piano that was on fire, like an idiot with no sense of self preservation. That was Chris all over; the smartest idiot Trevor knew.
“D’you want a cold compress for those bruises?” Trevor asked, finding the last remaining compress in the first aid kit.
“It’s fine,” Chris said, “I think another five minutes of the cold pack on your foot. Then we can wrap it and take you to hospital.”
Trevor leant against Chris’ side, enjoying the warmth from his body, enjoying his presence. He was fine, he was uninjured, They were speaking to each other. Trevor felt weightless with the relief of it.
He never wanted another month like that again.
“I wish you’d take better care of yourself, mate”
“I’m sorry.”
Of all the apologies that had been made tonight, Trevor knew this one wouldn’t last long. He looked at Chris’ shadowed eyes and thought of how many sleepless nights he’d had, scrambling to get The Nativity ready. It wouldn’t be long before he was running himself into the ground again trying to get them sponsorship, or preparing for a production. It wouldn’t be long before he was back doing risky stunts just to finish a play. Half-killing himself for the audience.
Trevor patted Chris’ back. There were words he wished he could say, but pushing any further tonight in this fragile, newly reconciled peace seemed like tempting fate.
“There’s only one cold pack anyway, and it’s really not that bad.”
“Don’t want to drive with a cold foot?” With giddy anticipation, Trevor watched for Chris’ reaction.
Chris huffed out a laugh, “I think I learnt my lesson two Christmas’ ago.”
Trevor grinned, “I did tell you that we should use fake ice.”
“It wasn’t realistic!”
“At least it wasn’t slippy.” It was nice to retread this familiar debate with Chris. It was nice just being with Chris at all.
Chris shot him a stubborn look, convinced he was in the right and that he’d argue this minor point as much as necessary until Trevor agreed. It was a good look on him, lighthearted and relaxed.
“It was ultramarine! Have you ever seen ice that colour, Trevor? And it was wasn’t the slippiness that was the problem-”
“-tell that to my arse-”
“- it was the melting. And the flood.”
Ah, the aftermath of that flood. Huddled in blankets, noisily taking over a corner of the walk-in centre’s waiting room, pressed into each other for warmth as Robert, Vanessa and Annie came up with increasingly bad jokes about Chris’ cold feet. Trevor had happily scored the jokes, listening to Chris quibble and poke holes: ‘that doesn’t even make sense, Robert- no, Dennis, don’t give it a ten.’
He’d looked into Chris’ reluctantly fond face as he called them all idiots and thought he’d do anything to keep that lighthearted happy affection on Chris’ face forever.
A night in the walk-in centre; three broken bones, a concussion and a cold burn to the tongue between the lot of them. It was a very happy memory.
Actually, thinking about it, in terms of injuries alone tonight might be their most successful Christmas production ever.
But still..
“The flood just proves my point, fake ice would have been better.”
Chris pulled a face, “It was very blue. We’d have needed a sign just to tell the audience that it was meant to be ice.”
“We’re creative, we could’ve managed.”
“I’m not sure there is enough creativity in the world for that!”
“I dunno, I thought you attempting to contain the water with the sledge was pretty creative.”
Chris gave a cut-off laugh, quickly smothered. He took a few small, shallow breaths; his face serious once again. He glanced at Trevor, consideringly. Trevor didn’t react, not wanting to lose the joy of the lighthearted atmosphere.
“I shouldn’t have sent everyone away,” Chris said, looking at Trevor apprehensively, “I’m not sure I’m good to drive.”
The warm-sleepy content disappeared, what had he missed?
Trevor sat up, alert: “You ok?”
“I’ve hurt my ribs. It’s probably fine but breathing is starting to hurt quite a lot now.” Chris was breathing shallowly, he noticed. He should have seen that earlier- but he’d thought it was just from the tears.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Trevor shuffled forward and began to undo Chris’ waistcoat. His ribs. How had Chris hurt his ribs, he was the narrator- he wasn’t even meant to be on stage.
“It wasn’t important, there was so much to do.” Chris said, moving to keep the cold compress pressed against Trevor’s foot as Trevor started to undo his shirt buttons, exposing Chris’ chest.
“Fuck,” said Trevor, not unreasonably; worry freezing his throat.
The top of Chris’ chest was painted in splotchy red, with deep purples marking out the shape of three ribs. More purple bruising in the shape of Chris’ shirt buttons stood starkly out, a testament to a violence that Trevor had missed.
Chris needed a hospital. He had needed a hospital as soon as the play had finished. He’d possibly needed a hospital as soon as he got injured. Trevor wracked his brains for when the injury had occurred, he’d have noticed if it had happened early on. Surely he’d have noticed if it had happened early on.
Why couldn’t Chris have said something sooner? He’d started to set down the set, gotten bollocked by Ben and then talked to Trevor. All the while possibly bleeding internally. That was serious. And Trevor had the horrible, unpleasant feeling that he’d only brought it up now because he was unsafe to drive. If Trevor had avoided him again, or stormed out, or asked that Annie did his first aid…. Fuck. The image of Chris, alone and struggling to breathe because he never thought to mention that he was injured. Why couldn’t he just use his words? Why did he have to make caring for him so difficult?
This wasn’t a bruise or a sprain that he’d ignored, this was something that could be life-threatening. And Chris had just not mentioned it. He’d asked after everyone else’s injuries while stubbornly hiding his own. If anyone else tried that, Trevor could only imagine the absolute hissyfit Chris would throw.
Fuck, how much damage had Trevor done with his crushing hug. Fuck. Fuck
In his peripheral vision, Trevor saw Chris flinch from the look on his face. He attempted to force it into something less furious. Baby steps- this wasn’t a new problem with Chris. Chris was fragile at the moment and Trevor had just gotten him back. If he wasn’t careful he’d ruin their friendship forever. Deal with the urgent medical issue now and let Chris know exactly how stupid he’d been later.
“Ah,” Chris glanced down, “In my defence; that is a lot worse than I thought it was.”
“When did this happen?” Trevor grabbed Chris’ wrist; felt for his pulse, glancing at his watch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…
Chris glanced over at the piano- still draped in sandy fire blanket. “About half an hour ago, maybe longer? It was when the piano was on fire.”
…22, 23, 24
That wasn’t as bad as it could be, the piano fire was at least near the end of the play.
“Any nausea?” …29, 30…
“No”
…32, 33, 34, 35…
“Any dizziness?” ..40, 41, 42…
“No.”
…45, 46, 47, 48…
“Any confusion, restlessness or irritability?” ….56, 57, 58…
“I’m not confused-” ..61, 62… “-I’m not more irritable than normal-” ..67, 68, 69… “-I am a bit jittery.”
…73, 74, 75…
“But that could be me still recovering from Robert’s stint as a pyrotechnician,” Chris said consideringly.
Chris’ pulse was weaker than he’d like.
…84, 85, 86, done
And faster, but that could be paranoia. He was going to hospital either way, that had been non-negotiable as soon as Trevor had seen his ribs.
“How’s the pain?”
“It’s fi-”
“Fuck Chris! I swear if you say it’s fine I’ll play circus music every time you walk on stage for the next month.” He was serious, he would. Chris would kill him but Trevor couldn’t make empty threats, not over this.
Chris’ shoulders dropped a bit. Deal with the injury now, have words with Chris later, Trevor reminded himself. The still fastened tie and top button looked uncomfortable around Chris’ neck. Trevor reached to loosen the tie.
“It hurts.” Chris admitted, “It hurts a lot.”
From the door there was a faint shuffling sound, getting fainter. Trevor ignored it, pulling Chris’ tie loose and undoing Chris’ top shirt button.
“Hold your compress” said Chris, “I’ll call us a cab-”
Footsteps, sounding unnaturally loud, drew Trevor and Chris’ attention to the door just in time for Robert to throw it open.
“Robert! What are you doing here?” Chris asked.
They must make quite the picture; Trevor and Chris sat on the floor together with only one shoe on between them. Chris in an unfastened shirt and waistcoat, holding a compress to Trevor’s foot. Whilst Trevor had Chris’ tie in one hand and was still holding Chris’ shirt with the other. It would have been a compromising scene if not for the obvious injuries on display.
“Left my hat,” said Robert, gesturing to his red sparkly hat, “Is everything ok?”
There was something strange about the way Robert asked that, almost artificial.
“Just a few injuries.” Chris said.
Robert took that as an invitation to come closer. His gaze fixed on Chris’ chest and Trevor recognized Robert’s guilty face, he’d certainly seen it enough. Trevor was growing certain that Chris’ state was at least partially Robert’s fault
Robert was careless, they’d all been responsible for injuries but Robert was the culprit more often than he wasn’t. He never meant it, and would inevitably lurk around whoever was injured in the aftermath, but that wouldn’t make him any more careful in the next production.
Trevor hadn’t seen the recording yet, he reminded himself. He didn’t know what had happened. Accidents did happen. A look at Chris’ chest made that fury hard to push down.
Trevor looked up at Robert, surprised to see him looking back, anger clear on his face. Had Trevor done anything to piss him off recently? He’d not seemed pleased by the unfinished props on stage but hadn’t seemed angry about it as they waited for Chris. Robert was many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. Although he could hold a grudge. That was fine, Trevor wasn’t best pleased with him either.
Robert shifted his gaze to Trevor’s foot,
“Ouch,” he said, almost conversationally, “You’ll be needing a lift I suppose?”
“Yeah,” Trevor said. Now that Robert had seen both of them were injured there was no doubt that he’d be taking them to hospital- by force if necessary.
Robert gave a long suffering sigh, “I’ve got nothing better to be doing, are you even able to walk?”
“He’s not” Chris answered for him, “His foot needs to be wrapped and then he’s to put no weight on it at all.”
The last bit was unfairly pointed, Trevor thought, since he wasn’t the idiot who’d hidden internal bleeding.
“I’ll get your bags and coats.” Robert seemed unusually enthusiastic to do so. It made Trevor suspicious.
Slightly warm cold compress removed, Chris carefully secured the padding to Trevor’s foot with a bandage. As careful as Chris was, the movement sent fires of pain up his foot as it protested the loss of the soothing cold. Trevor bit down on any pained noises- he didn’t want to make Chris feel shittier than he already did. Especially not for this, which wasn’t his fault.
Looking for a distraction, Trevor looked around the room. Robert, red hat now on his head, had already collected Trevor and Chris’ bags. He was currently rummaging through Chris’ bag, seemingly in search of something.
That was probably not going to end well.
Whatever it was, Robert had found it, pulling two white boxes and pocketing them with a furious look at Chris. Were those tablets?
Trevor glanced back at Chris, who oblivious to Robert’s actions, was now tying his own shoes, shirt and waistcoat still hanging open. Trevor tried to avoid getting in the way of Chris and Robert’s disputes unless it got out of hand, it was rarely worth getting both men irritated at him when for the most part they sorted it out themselves. And whilst Robert going through Chris’ stuff was concerning, the last time Trevor had intervened between them had gone poorly and he was wary to do so again.
Plus that looked like boxes of tablets. Trevor had a bad feeling about why Robert had been so pissed to find tablets in Chris’ possession. Another injury perhaps. Bringing it up now would probably only lead to Chris and Robert fighting and their hospital trip delayed. Trevor would wait.
He also didn’t want to get more upset at Chris’ self-preservation than he already was. It could wait until after the hospital.
Flumf. Trevor’s coat landed on the floor in front of him.
“Where’s your coat, Chris?” Robert asked, impatient.
A pause.
“I’m not entirely sure,” said Chris, eyes flitting around the studio, “I had it earlier, I think. Or was that yesterday?”
“It's freezing out,” Trevor said, eyeing Chris’ bare chest.
“I wouldn’t be able to wear it anyway.”
Robert had wandered over to the piano and shook the sand off the fire blanket, darkened and burnt in the middle, “there, you can use this as a blanket.”
Chris looked indignant, “That is not the proper use of a fire blanket!”
“Well, we can’t exactly use it again,” Robert reasoned.
Chris huffed, then immediately went pale, hand going to his ribs. Trevor reached out and placed a comforting hand on his thigh- Hold on, you’re ok. I’ve got you. He could see Robert had taken an aborted step towards them.
“We should get a move on,” Trevor said, Chris needed to be seen sooner rather than later.
Chris nodded and, before Trevor could object, pushed himself to his feet.
“Chris!”
“Jesus Christ”
“I can walk,” Chris said, defensively, face pale, jaw clenched. He reached down for the bags.
“Don’t you dare.” It was difficult to sound assertive from the floor, but Trevor reckoned he’d managed it.
Chris looked like a scolded cat, visibly deliberating if he did dare. Robert took the choice from him by shouldering both bags.
“Come on,” said Robert, leaning down to Trevor.
As Robert’s arms lifted Trevor up, one of the white packets liberated from Chris’ bag fell to the floor. The words ‘Caffeine Tablets’ stared up at Trevor accusingly. Trevor thought of Chris’ shadowed eyes, of the sheer amount that still got done despite Chris spending less time with them on set.
Chris was an adult. He could make his own bad choices, but that didn’t mean that Trevor couldn’t be there to help, to support, to make sure that he wasn’t killing himself.
To tell him how stupid he was being. To take him to task when he did something monumentally moronic.
He thought of two years ago, that night in the walk-in centre. Finding happiness in each other’s company despite the disaster of a show. Tonight in A&E wouldn’t be too bad. He’d spend it with Chris. And Robert he supposed. But he’d spend it with Chris speaking to him. Chris who’d missed him just as fiercely as Trevor had missed him.
Chris’ apology hadn’t made Chris’ words unhurtful, hadn’t made them ok. But it had soothed the hurt, made it less raw. And making his own apologies had lifted the terrible weight of this awful, Chris-less month.
Trevor had learnt his lesson, he could never let things reach the point they had tonight. He’d had a right to feel hurt, but ignoring it had only made things worse. It had hurt both him and Chris; it had not kept Chris safe, not kept him well. And Trevor wanted Chris safe and well, this all started with wanting Chris safe and well. Not caring about Chris wasn’t an option.
It might not be his job, but he would always be Chris’ friend.