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In the history of the universe, there has never been a scheduled performance that didn’t require the performers to hurry up and wait. One doesn’t arrive in a timely fashion to do a show, one shows up so far in advance that it feels like the show could be given several times over while waiting for whatever it is. The more complicated the gig, the worse this effect gets. With a lot of practice one can minimize the wait, which is why Ollie has been goofing around on his phone with nothing to do for an hour, rather than three.
A knock at the door. “Ollie? Can I offload on you?” Paul pushes the door open without an answer. He’s got one hand clamped around Till’s wrist. They both look surly. Ollie turns in a vaguely accepting way, and Paul drags Till in and gives him a push towards the sofa.
Paul crosses his arms and addresses Ollie. “He’s had two beers and punched a truck. Call if you need me.” So Paul is not quite at the end of his rope, but getting there. That means Till’s pre-show nerves are at about a three out of five. Paul huffs out, relieved of duty.
Richard is the first line of response when it comes to Till, and he carries a heavy load to do it. When that approach is exhausted, Paul takes over. Often that works, Paul’s energy and fearlessness can keep Till together enough to stay out of trouble. Next is Ollie. If Ollie fails, Flake is next in line. He’s particularly effective if Till is getting physical. Till can’t lash out wildly and simultaneously protect Flake’s scrawny, naive being against the dangers of the world, especially when they’re him, and usually he switches back to protective.
Schneider is last in line, and that means it’s bad. They don’t often get to Schneider.
But at the current moderate level, Ollie has several options. They have more than an hour before anybody needs them, though makeup should happen in there, too.
He swivels to face Till, where Paul left him on the sofa. He’s glowering silently, beanie pulled down to his eyebrows. His feet are bare below his sweatpants.
“Do you need to ice that hand?” Ollie asks. He’d rather not lead with that, it puts the focus back on Till being a shithead, but that’s better than letting Till’s hand swell up.
“I just hit the tire.” He’s starting to jiggle his leg. “You gonna let me get drunk? Paul was being a little bitch about it.” Ollie doesn’t reply, that was a rhetorical question. “Or coke would be nice. Or blowjobs. Fight? I could stand to have the shit beat out of me. All of the above?”
Ollie holds his gaze level. Till keeps meeting his eyes for a moment, then glancing away again, then back.
“Tango or Brecht.”
Till scoffs. “Trick question. Brecht is such a downer.”
Ollie hooks his bag with his foot and drags it closer to rummage around in it. He finds his street shoes, socks stuffed in them. They’re nothing special, but they have a fairly smooth sole. They’re going to look silly with his gym shorts but sacrifices must be made. He lets one sandal plop to the floor, fishes the socks out of the shoes, puts them on.
Till is chewing his thumbnail and picking at his elbow and bouncing both legs, one up and one down. Ollie gets his phone from the counter. He gets up and holds the door open and Till grumbles and groans all the way out.
This is a nicer place than some, they each got a room. Two of them are bathrooms, but that’s still a cut above the average where they have to double (even sometimes triple) up. Till’s room is just across the hall.
He leans on the doorframe and leers at Ollie. “I don’t have the right shoes for this, querido.” He draws out the middle syllable, rolling the R and finishing syrupy and lascivious on the O.
He’s going to wear the dress shoes he keeps in his kit for this like always, as they both know perfectly well.
“Would you like me to get them?” Ollie asks, because Till hates the implication that he can’t do something himself, so it will make him hurry up already.
“I’m freaking out, Ollie, not totally incompetent.” He goes in and upends his bag on the floor, and Ollie calls that a success. They were once particularly nice shoes, Italian calfskin in a soft golden finish, now scuffed all to hell. His feet are broad and blunt, when bare they look too wide to fit in the dress shoes. He shoves one foot in.
“Seriously, I should get the real thing some day. Eight centimeter stilettos, peep toe, ankle strap, black.” His sweatpants are old and grey, topped with a black hoodie. The formal shoes look just as incongruous as Ollie’s combination. “I’d look you in the eye.” He grins up at Ollie, lips pulled back so it’s toothy and shark-like. He ties the short round laces in a tidy bow. While he stirs the pile of stuff for the other shoe he shifts around to get the other foot free. He squeezes the other shoe on. No socks.
“Would you like that?” Till smirks. He puts out a hand for Ollie to help him up.
“We’d be quite a sight,” Ollie says gently, pulling Till to his feet. Till’s hand is clammy. They’re quite a sight anyway, one absurdly tall, the other absurdly broad, in sweats and fancy shoes.
“Here?”
“There’s a wider hall around the corner.”
The floor is unfinished concrete, not the best but workable. They’ll have to watch for traffic, this hall is big enough to drive a forklift through, so someone undoubtedly will. Though by this time most of the big pieces should be in place already.
Ollie pulls his phone out and queues up the music - Argentine, simultaneously snappy and slinky. It echoes tinnily down the corridor. In the five seconds he looked away Till has been scraping his nail on the wall, filing at some imperfection but probably just making it worse. Ollie puts his phone in his back pocket and offers the abrazo.
Till goes straight for the closed embrace, massive upper arm lightly on Ollie’s shoulder, huge chest leaned against Ollie’s, damp meaty palm in Ollie’s hand. Ollie pushes his weight forward onto Till, he’s going to topple otherwise. Flattening his hand on the middle of Till’s back makes it more of the intended hug rather than just two big dudes leaning on each other.
He rocks back and forth on his toes for a moment, getting the beat and accustoming Till to following him.
“You’re going to have to let me lead, one of these days,” Till rumbles by his ear. “I’m not bad at it.” His hands are shaking. “Women love it.” He gyrates his hips, brushing the front of his sweatpants across Ollie. “Can I?” He’s being obnoxious, daring Ollie to either scold him or reject him. The first way he gets to have an argument and let his emotions run, the second way he gets to have his self-loathing vindicated. Win-win.
Instead Ollie starts their pace down the hall, steering Till backwards. Just a simple step, feet parallel, striding wider and lower than he would normally walk. He’d take it slower if his partner was wearing a skirt, but Till needs to run off his jitters - fast is good. For all his grumbling, Till goes willingly. He’s a responsive follower, even when it’s as simple as this.
At the dock doors they turn around and come back, adding in crossing steps. Tango is an unforgiving dance. Too fast to think, too close together to make it easy to not step on each other, too much body contact to hide anything. Ollie can tell Till really has only had two beers. Good work, Richard and Paul, he thinks.
Till is breathing hard enough that he’s not going to want to talk. More than that, though, as soon as they started his mentality shifted. He’s attentive, focused. Not quite relaxed yet, but not chafing against his own skin so hard, either.
They spin smartly at the corner and start a third lap, Ollie offering his leg and Till clearing it in a crisp pasada. He doesn’t have a boxer’s grace, the only kind one would expect in a man his size. He’s not light on his feet. Forcing him to take his weight on the balls of his feet, as tango does, it’s hard on him. He’s not clumsy, far from it, but he’s heavy and stolid. Ollie doesn’t have any expectations of nimbleness in himself either, but he’s at least lighter.
“You trying to wear me down?” Till asks.
“Of course,” Ollie answers. That’s entirely why they’re doing this. Till’s hand in his own is sweatier than it was, but now warm. The shakes are fading. Till grins over Ollie’s shoulder.
There are several reasons this works, Ollie thinks. Most obviously is that they both know the dance. Too, of all of them, Ollie is the only one who can physically keep up with Till - Till could lift him with one arm (and has), but Ollie can run him ragged aerobically.
More subtly, it’s something about his height. Something about how Till has to look up into his face. It’s not just that he’s tall, Flake is tall too, but he’s never been imposing in his life. Ollie, though, somehow he can make Till feel small. Then he follows first and thinks second. And less thinking is precious, slowing whatever overheated machinery in Till’s head makes him want to batter himself bloody.
They tried having him go for a jog but it doesn’t force him to focus, he just runs and runs and then is tired but still calamitous. As a last resort, Schneider...well, Schneider is something else.
Ollie is not above doing a lap of basico to ease into something more like a dance and less like making Till power-walk backwards with his knees bent. At the corner Till disengages and strips off his sweatshirt. He’s wearing a well-loved t-shirt underneath that’s prone to bunching under his arms. He keeps the beanie on, though he’s sweating under it. They come to the end of a song.
For a moment, standing alone by the wall, Till looks almost timid, until Ollie positions his arms and welcomes him back in. That’s another reason this works - body contact. Till’s knuckles on his right hand are bruised but no worse, Ollie notices as Till takes his hand again. He must have aimed for a smooth spot on the tire and just bounced right off. And then let Paul drag him away.
Headed back towards the dock doors, their over-ground pace slower, Till starts adding in embellishments, taps and twists and touches of his legs against Ollies’. He probably isn’t a bad leader, he has a plan and a good sense of rhythm. Ollie’s never going to let him try.
Most of the way along, Till says, “How offended would you be if I adjusted my situationally-inappropriate boner?”
“Do you want me to be?” He trusts Till to tell him if he’s trying to pick a fight.
“Not particularly, just thought I’d give you a warning before I stuck my hand down my pants.” This isn’t an uncommon occurrence, that Till gets hard dancing. Till is actually more embarrassed than amused, despite all his earlier innuendos. Before, he was trying to be infuriating. This, though, he swears up, down, and sideways is purely physiological, totally impersonal, just physical closeness and relaxation. So in that way it’s a good thing, it means he’s becoming less anxious. It was pretty weird the first time, but that was many tangos ago.
“Please use your left hand.” Till snickers a little at that, but he’d rather not get Till’s dick sweat on his hand. Till does what he needs to do, and they resume.
The song changes over. With the worst of the edge taken off it can really be a dance, listening to the cadence of the music and finding a way together through it. Over Till’s shoulder Ollie can see Paul come around the corner, half in costume, and lean against the wall to watch. Paul winks at them, Ollie winks back, and then they turn.
“Fucking hell, Ollie, you might have told me Paul was there,” Till exclaims.
“He only just showed up.” Now his back is to Paul, but Ollie guesses he’s making faces. Till is starting to sweat through both their shirts, making a big damp spot between them. He squeezes Till’s hand lightly. “Did you eat?”
“Catering with Richard. I’ll have a snack before we go on.” That’s all good. ‘Catering’ means it was after they got here, so recently enough. ‘With Richard’ means it wasn’t only dessert. ‘I’ll have a snack’ means he thinks it will stay down.
Till turns his head and leans his hat-covered forehead on Ollie’s cheek. He’s starting to get tired, not pushing against the tempo any more.
They turn at the far end, and it’s Ollie’s turn to have a start looking down the corridor - Paul has been joined by Schneider and Richard.
“You might have told me Schneider and Richard were there, too.”
“But I didn’t. Neener neener.” He rubs his thumb affectionately on the heel of Ollie’s hand. “I should go dress, soon.”
“Me too.”
“One more lap?” Till suggests.
They get close enough to the watching trio for Ollie to ask as he turns, “Did we lose Flake?”
Paul looks stricken out of habit, and then says, “Oh, no, I just saw him. Not lost.”
They’re back to almost a walk, swaying and sliding to the music from Ollie’s pocket. “You don’t have anything slower, do you?” Till asks.
“We’re almost done.” They’re almost out of time, soon they have to move on to waiting while in costume. “Do you want help with your makeup?”
“I’ll get Richard to do my eyeliner.” He probably won’t see Till again until moments before they start, then. The two of them are both particular about it, even though it’s stage makeup and no one will ever know the difference. Till’s hair is going to take some doing, but Ollie figures he’ll leave that to someone who knows anything about hair. Anything at all.
They turn again at the doors, Till gets in some brisk toe taps and winds his calf behind Ollie’s as they pivot. Faced forward, Ollie can see that Flake really wasn’t lost, he’s down with the others now.
They make their way back, promenading and showboating a bit for the audience. It affects Ollie too, of course, the exercise and the closeness, though mercifully his dick doesn’t expect to participate in every little thing he does. But it’s nice, feeling warm and loose and friendly like this.
Ollie tightens his arm around Till’s back. “This was fun.” As they approach the corner, their small audience starts cheering.
They finish with a flourish and a shallow dip, Ollie has no intention of dropping Till at this juncture. The other four clap and shout and whistle, the applause echoing back off the concrete. Till pulls back, but hangs on to Ollie’s elbow while he plants a smacking kiss on his cheek.
“Thanks,” he mutters in Ollie’s ear.
Ollie smiles at him, soft and easy. “See you on the other side.”