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They’d been observing each other across the room all day. Each looking up as Ru did his walkthrough, surveyed their partner with a protective gaze and a warm heart. They’d be naive to think he hadn’t noticed, but then again they were never the most aware. As Brooke walked into Untucked, feet aching from heels and soul burning just a little brighter from the praise, he’d hoped they could have a nice talk. He was blissfully unaware of what was to come.
The thing was, he missed her. He missed the way her eyes softened at the sight of him, the way her face broke wide into a smile at the things he said. Hidden relationships were never said to be easy, but he at least hoped this one would involve talking in the open more than once a week. He grabbed his brightly coloured cocktail from its usual table, pink straw already finding its way to his lips as he sat down beside her. Vanjie looked at him lovingly, hand on his knee for a brief second. Brooke savoured the tingling feeling her fingers sent through his thigh - held onto it like a life raft in an ocean of sugary drinks and nail polish. Then it started.
It began as a, to be fair, quite harsh argument between Silky and Yvie. Had Brooke been listening, he might have had an opinion that wasn't just occasionally taking dramatic sips of his cocktail. Unfortunately for him, his entire focus was concentrated on the way her knee was almost touching his. Almost .
The first time he broke his - now slightly tipsy - trance was when she moved, presumably to support Silky or something of that nature. The cold shock he felt as the ever-present heat of her body moved from his periphery sobered him somewhat, and he found himself listening back in on the conversation. For the most part he kept to himself, finding it amusing to look straight at the camera in the more dramatic moments. Where he felt necessary (or when he was the most bored) however, he’d add in little comments. He wasn't particularly sure which side he was supporting but he more or less just sat and drank until the pink straw fell lazily to the opposite side of his glass.
Unlike the usual schtick though, where the one glass rule applied, a producer immediately handed him a second cup. The green straw very quickly found his lips however the warning glance from the camera guy suggested this one be drunk slower than its predecessor. He put down the drink.
The tension between the two was cut by the wheeling in of a large video screen where, to Plastique's screams if delight, her boyfriend popped up. At that moment his eyes scanned the room to find her. It was just his luck that she was already staring, warmth pooling in her features as the heartwarming message played in the background. It humbled him a little to remember that he wasn't far from his man at any point. He didn't have to hope for a message from a boyfriend or loved one - he had one right here.
Unfortunately, the calm and happy aura didn't last long in the backstage area. Ra’jah instantly appeared to have a problem with the message and to be honest, it confused the hell out of him. He knew that later he’d probably voice it over with a dumb comment about Mother Theresa or something, but for now, he was content to establish full eye contact with every camera surrounding him. He wished RuPaul could see him right now - this was his personality. “Brooke Lynn, what is it that you have to say,” came Ra’jah’s voice from over the pounding of his head. He awkwardly rolled himself to be somewhat facing them, the angle not so much pretty as just comfortable - the level of double chins he was giving was sure to be a wild ride. “I… Y’all just need to get the fuck out,” he chuckled before continuing. “Like you need to get out what you wanna say ‘cause this whole, like, ‘I’m mad at you but now we’re best friends thing is like…” He rolled his eyes back into his head, tried to convey the confusion that he felt. He was used to the abject, blunt professionalism of ballet dancers and Canadians. He wasn't used to the soft, cushioned blows that many Americans favoured - it just wasn't his style.
Ra’jah and Plastiques fight ended almost as quickly as it had begun and Brooke almost hoped that the rest of Untucked could just be a nice, cocktail-fueled debate over flowers or the best sauce at Swiss Chalet. Maybe he and Shuga could have a kiki or he could talk to Vanjie about anything. Literally anything . He had to stop jinxing things. As nice as his momentary lapse in thought had been, he was snapped back to the present where Yvie was now trying to fight Vanjie over comments made in the werkroom and, if by magic, she took the bait. It was only now, one and a bit cocktails deep, that he was surprised though. They’d been buddies at the start of the day but now the two had very little stopping them from tearing each other apart. He would be excited to watch if he didn't care. Sadly for his entertainment, he did.
The fight raged on. He liked to think that the Montagues and Capulets would shudder if they watched it.
Eventually he came to the conclusion, in his admittedly drunken state, that the only way his Canadian ass could solve this would be to build a pillow fort. As if to try and shield himself from the actual hell that was occurring on the other side of the plush blue sofa cushions, he buried himself further into his cocoon. It was no secret that he really liked Vanjie, maybe could even see himself loving her, but god at that moment Brooke Lynn wished to be as distant as possible from the tiny, rope clad man. Yet again, making eye contact with the camera, he slowly manoeuvred his way out of the den. Very careful not to spill any as he pragmatically sipped his drink, he steadied himself on his heels before taking a few confident strides towards the mess that was unfolding. Despite Silky’s half-assed effort at holding Vanjie back, she was still trying at Yvie’s throat so Brooke positioned himself between the two. He placed one shaky hand softly on the shorter queen’s and felt it relax beneath his grasp. Their eyes met, serene (slightly blown) blue, locking with dark, burning brown. Brooke had to swallow back a chuckle as one of the producers called them to the main stage, a quip about being saved by the bell on the tip of her tongue as he gave Yvie a simultaneously apologetic and warning look.
Later, on the mainstage, when they were down to eight queens and Brooke could say for sure he had another few days with his man - he intertwined their fingers. His calloused palm met hers and the soft squeeze that went through them sent shivers down his spine. It only lasted seconds but he knew what it meant, even as tipsy as he was. It was thank you and I love you and please don't leave all rolled into one.
‘I’m still here, baby’