Chapter Text
"A solar eclipse occurs when a portion of the Earth is engulfed in a shadow cast by the Moon which fully or partially blocks sunlight. This occurs when the Sun, Moon and Earth are aligned. Such alignment coincides with a new moon indicating the Moon is closest to the ecliptic plane." - Wikipedia
"And all you create and all you destroy
And all that you do and all that you say
And all that you eat and everyone you meet
And all that you slight and everyone you fight
And all that is now and all that is gone
And all that's to come and everything under the sun is in tune
But the sun is eclipsed by the moon." - Pink Floyd
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Los Angeles, CA
When Dewey wants Bobby’s attention while he’s working, first he will say from another room, “Hon.” It’s not a question, and it’s not angry, it just has a nice dark little period on the end of it. But then he says something else, as he’s approaching Bobby’s home office, and this second statement is where the tone of the conversation is. Bobby has known and loved Dewey for long enough that he knows the second statement could only be one of these four words, meaning the following:
1.) “Babe!” He just wants to chat about something. It’s not important. It’s probably what he picked up at the farmer’s market that day. Bobby is allowed to defer this, as long as he remembers to come back to it later.
2.) A second “Hon!” a little more insistent. This is probably something that needs repair—an appliance not doing what it should, the molding in the foyer is showing signs of warping again. Bobby usually stops what he’s doing to talk about it.
3.) “Bobby!” With a rhythmic tilt to it, as he’s walking. This doesn’t happen often, but it usually means sex.
4.) “Bobby.” With a period, when he reaches the office. Bad news. It only happened twice, when their basement flooded and when Dewey’s mom passed. Bobby braces himself and shuts his laptop.
Number 4.) was what Dewey used before he told Bobby that Antoni Porowski had gone missing.
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Los Angeles, CA
Karamo was told in such an organized fashion. He was told in a way, with no love, almost like an accusation. Now, Karamo Brown is smart enough to have never been fooled in the first place into believing that the people who surround him at cocktail parties were actually his friends. Of course they want something. But that’s fine. It’s understandable, actually. He’s at a place in his life where he has nearly everything he could want—residual money from Queer Eye that only slowly stacks up since it ended, a loving husband, two houses, a YouTube series all to himself in which he talks things out with various reality stars via webcam, and the control over this series that says he can end whenever he pleases (and he might just do so in the next week, because he noticed it’s starting to become a little more stress than fun, and why bother in that case? It’s just YouTube.)
So he doesn’t mind when someone wants something innocent, such as an autograph, a shoutout to someone on the phone, advice on a breakup, even a round of drinks. It’s when someone attacks him, trying to find a weak spot, that Karamo lashes out a little bit. Envy is a destroyer of dreams, he says sometimes, and it’s equally destructive to his mood.
When he entered the kitchen of LeBron James’ Los Angeles mansion, Karamo absentmindedly poured himself a second rum and coke while checking in for his flight back home. When he opened his phone, he saw a See you tomorrow, can’t wait text from Ian. Warmth flooded his insides, more so than any alcohol ever could. He was about to shoot back a Love & miss u, but decided to take a second to let himself feel all the love. There were so many missed opportunities in his youth, that he decided whenever he felt a flood of warmth for his husband, he would take a second and think of nothing but how lovely the feeling of love is.
“Oh shit yeah, aren’t those lights fucking awesome? L.B. got the shades imported from Italy. He’s got a glassmaker there. Isn’t there a word for that? Atelier or something? Glassblower?” Karamo’s interruption was some sort of sports reporter that he had definitely met that night, but whose name he didn’t care to remember after he heard the man bragging about how many cheerleaders’ numbers he had saved in his phone.
Karamo adjusted his tone when he realized annoyance had completely replaced love. He didn’t want to be rude but he also didn’t want to seem welcoming. “Glass blower would be if they were blowing glass, which I’m not sure is the case all the time.”
“Dude, I gotta say, I admire that you’re even out and partying now, with the news and all.”
Karamo did not want to give this guy the full satisfaction, so he stirred his drink to avoid eye contact as he asked, “What news would that be?”
“Your friend is missing.”
Something, a neuron, a heartbeat, a memory, made Karamo look up. Something, maybe a premonition, told him this was serious. But something else, pride most likely, made him just say, “I’ve got a lot of friends.”
“Your friend from your show.”
His heart rate picked up. Karamo took a breath before speaking, willing it to go back down. “I’ve got a lot of friends from a lot of shows.”
“The food one. Anthony something? Oh shit, you didn’t hear?” This last question was filled with glee.
And normally Karamo would let it go, but he was filled immediately with a rage. Rage at the happiness this man felt being the first to deliver bad news, rage at the news itself, rage at someone for having the nerve to call him Anthony, and rage at himself for only realizing that just now was the first he’d though of Antoni in at least a month. “Is this good news to you?”
“What? Ah, no, man, sorry, it’s just--- you know like, a nervous smile thing. Funeral giggles. I hope he’s okay, really. Do you know where he might be?”
“Why would I know where he is? Do you think all gay men keep tabs on each other nonstop? That we have nothing else to do but gossip?”
“I—no—of course not, I’m not like that—”
“And who are you to say I did or did not know? What if I came out here just trying to have a good time, between running from publicity event to marketing ploy and in between, having to hear devastating news? And you, with your unbridled enthusiasm in wrecking that night? Does it satisfy you to know that it worked? That you ruined my mood? Possibly my whole night?”
“No it doesn’t SATISFY me why would it— listen, I—didn’t mean…” The guy was turning red. Karamo had already tired him out. Now he would gravely injure him, making sure he didn’t get back up.
“I understand that the trend in media of getting sick entertainment out of the tragedy of gay men is not something you yourself caused, but it’s definitely something you should take a step back and analyze. What could you be lacking in your own life that means that you sought me out in here to deliver this news, and consider that to be part of having a good time here tonight?”
The reporter had started making himself a drink, spilling a bit of Grey Goose on his sleeve. Karamo considered his kill shot. Should it be attacking him for not having a reporter’s ability to talk his way out, rendering his career useless? Should he figure out how many times he can use the word homophobic in a single sentence? Should he threaten to call him out on it the next time he gets in front of a camera?
These were all good options. And there were so many more. He felt so overwhelmed with good options that he couldn’t pick one. He also felt overwhelmed in general. Karamo felt his face. There was a tear. He wiped his face quickly and got out of there. The last thing he needed was someone filming him crying. He called his Uber and had to suppress his instinct to run outside. Someone, probably LeBron, called out to him, and dashed over to catch up. He reached over to grab Karamo’s arm, but Karamo shrugged him off, and struggled out a “I’ll call you later man, your house is beautiful, thank you for the company.”
Thankfully, he only had to fight the tears for another minute of standing outside before his Uber came. And when he got in the back, the tears ran down his face as he muttered out a “Hello, how are you?” to the driver. And because you should never suppress these extreme feelings, just let them take over, Karamo spent the rest of the ride back to his hotel sobbing to Ian on the phone (and another five minutes in the parking lot).
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San Francisco, CA
See, here’s the thing, Jonathan never really lost touch with Antoni, not really. Whenever they were in the same city, they always met up, and got wine together (Antoni always ordered, and he always liked to pretend he forgot that Jonathan doesn’t even really like rose’ that much, so he can order a fancy rose’ and talk about it too much) and sometimes cried about how the fab five as a group were drifting apart.
Now granted, this had been happening less and less, and it broke Jonathan’s heart! A lot did, so that wasn’t saying too much, but whenever they did meet up, it was like no time had passed. Jonathan didn’t want to force anything. He was not a forcer. No sir (or no ma’am, or no whatever you want.)
So he figured Antoni was going through something personal, and that’s why he didn’t respond when he called for their once-a-week-as-contractually-obligated-no-I-mean-literally-they-wrote-up-and-signed-a-contract Facetime session. Maybe something was wrong with his corgi, Jamón. (One time, Jamón ate a bunch of rubber bands, and they passed in his poo, but Antoni still went into hibernation for three days).
Or maybe he had found a new man, and that’s why he didn’t respond to the last three messages Jonathan sent him on Instagram: one was a borzoi appearing to be saying hello, one was a toddler delightfully messing up the Canadian national anthem, and one was a video showing how to make something called “slutty croissant bars.” (Four messages then, if you count the caption Jon sent with it, “WILL YOU PLEASE MAKE ME THESE FOR ME IMMEDIATELY IF NOT BEFORE!!!”)
Or maybe he was writing his third cookbook (what could it be about, Jonathan wondered? Just Polish foods this time? That’s what he was always threatening, and it’s what Jonathan had always called boring, but he hoped Antoni didn’t take him seriously when said that, and if Jonathan had one wish, right now, it would be that he would give Antoni the confidence to write his Polish-only cookbook!), and that’s why he didn’t respond to any of the eight times Jonathan called him that week.
Still, Jonathan convinced himself not to worry (because worrying makes him prone to breakouts. With a fourth national stand-up tour about to happen, there is no need to add to the breakout potential).
But when he went back to Antoni’s insta profile to send a fourth message (a dachshund getting rolled into a burrito, if you were wondering), he saw that it had been deleted.
Jonathan knew, instantly, that something was wrong. He threw his phone on the bed and threw himself into child’s pose immediately to stave off the panic attack. But it was too late. He started hyperventilating.
He grabbed his phone and ran circles around his unmade bed while he shot off the World’s Messiest Text to his assistant Julie: Julie there is soemthng wrong with Antoni I can just feel it and I think it’s erious so please if you could just plz stop what you’r doing and find out where he is and what’s wrong, I need to know ASAP
A second text, seven seconds later: If he is in NYC and needs help then could you also book me a flight to there tonite and cancel my show tonite. This man is a priority for me and he needs to know that
A third text, thirty seconds later: I like jetblue and all and you know that I’m sorry but it als odoesnt have to be jb I just want to be able to get there NOW
A fourth, five seconds later: thank you you’re my favorite
A fifth, five minutes, ten bed circles, and one glass of mineral water later: I feel better now, just getting that out of my system. You honestly don’t have to rush. Sorry it seemed so frantic but you know how I get. I even tried my child’s pose and my deep breathing but it didn’t work. Did you check on my Xanax refill? I think it might be time, lol. Please don’t quit JULIE I NEED YOU LOL But at your leisure, could you still look up my bb Ant? I’m lowkey still worried. But I am sure he’s just being moody
Julie responded, just as he was done typing out that last sentence of his fifth message: I’m going to call you. Are you sitting down?
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Salt Lake City, UT
No one told Tan.
Well, no one important to him.
He was in the gym. The gym had become a happy place over the past month. One of the only places where he had total control.
He knew in the back of his mind that he should be addressing the sudden exercise obsession with his therapist, but there was a lot of more pressing things to address. And his therapist only had so many hours in a week.
Tan had gotten some glee out of the fact that regular hikes with Rob used to be a struggle. Now he could run further and faster than ever before.
Did his calves throb with every stride? Yes.
Was sweat threatening to bring down his immaculate hair? Yes.
The other day, when he got out of bed for his morning tea, did his legs actually collapse under him, and stay collapsed for four whole minutes? Yes.
Did he feel weak? No.
And that was what was important.
He had his headphones in, listening to a divorce podcast on NPR as he upped the treadmill another setting, nearly at max. He could really only listen to this topic while running. Did we mention the control thing?
He also half-watched the E! News his apartment’s gym had on. This apartment was temporary, and he was grateful for how empty he was. If someone came on, they were inevitably going to recognize him as a new neighbor.
Imagine having to meet someone while looking that sweaty and wearing leggings with mesh panels, a trend from 2019?
No thank you.
So even though no one was around, to be sure, he kept his eyes glued to the screen. It wrapped up something about Lindsay Lohan’s supposed comeback, and Antoni’s face flashed across the screen.
Tan snorted, recognizing the photo as one of his thirst pics from Instagram. What could this be about? Was Antoni in a new relationship? Starring in a cooking show, maybe?
Tan listened to the last thought on the podcast, then pulled out one earbud to hear something about “His Instagram, along with his Facebook profile, seem to have been deleted without a trace.”
Tan slowed the treadmill down by just one speed, wanting to hear, but not wanting to slow down.
The news snippet ended, with simply, “New York City police are urging anyone to come forward if they have any information on Porowski’s whereabouts.”
Then it switched to something about Gary Busey’s sex life.
Tan betrayed no emotion. He made sure of it.
He slowed his treadmill to a stop over the next two minutes. Then he packed up his airpods. He gave himself and the treadmill a quick wipe down.
Then he went to the locker room, where he quickly vomited before excusing himself back upstairs to get no sleep.