Chapter Text
The call comes at a rather inconvenient time for Percy, although really, what time isn’t inconvenient? He hates talking on the phone with a burning passion, hates the way his voice sounds cranked through machinery. It’s a remnant of the time when he hated the way his voice sounded no matter the situation, but now, three years after dropping from an alto to a tenor, it’s more of a lingering annoyance instead of extreme discomfort. But regardless, he’s still rather put out when his phone starts blaring the opening of Ship to Wreck in the middle of one of those stream-of-consciousness writing frenzies he sometimes goes into when he’s bored late at night.
The number is familiar, although he can’t place where from, and he picks up with a “Hello?” that comes out more like a sigh, balancing his phone between his head and his shoulder as he goes to scribble the last of the riff he was working on.
“Mr. Newton?” asks a woman with a Spanish accent on the other side of the line. “Yes, this is him.” This is him. Does that sound odd, or is he really just overthinking this? “I’m Helena Robles. I tried calling your agent’s office and they directed me here. We’d like you to come out for a meeting with our producers.”
“Sorry, what?” Percy can’t remember who Helena Robles is, or how he’s supposed to know her. He certainly can’t think of a reason producers for something would want to meet with him. “What producers?”
There’s a beat of awkward silence before she responds. “From Nine to Jive: Britain?”
“Oh. Oh!” Percy fumbles for his agent-required schedule and skims the last month’s worth of applications, and sure enough, there it is. At some point, he’d applied to be on a televised dancing competition as part of an effort to get his aunt off his back about doing something productive while he’s not on tour. And now he’s supposed to meet with the show’s producers. Oh God. “Yes. Right. Sorry. Y’all want me to come out?” Already did that. Twice.
“Well, to meet us, yes. Can you make lunch tomorrow at 12:30? This is terribly short notice but we’ve got to start filming soon.”
“Yes, ma’am, 12:30 works.” God, he sounds like a ten-year-old again. Ma’am. The manners his mother taught him had come back to bite him in the ass.
Helena rattles off the address of a restaurant downtown that he hopes he’s not expected to pay for. Percy might be a full-fledged professional singer-songwriter, but between his constant medical bills, the travel expenses leftover from his tour, and the fact that his record label has probably been scamming him out of most of his royalties, he’s not eager to blow big money on a lunch he doesn’t really want to go to in the first place. But if he turns it down and his aunt finds out, she’ll give him hell for weeks. Better to go to the meeting and be awkward and off-putting and have them never call again.
…………
Monty prides himself on never being a mess, and yet, here he is, stumbling his way through a simple conversation. He’s picking at his barely-touched dinner with a fork and desperately avoiding eye contact with the new producer, a tall, bearded, rather imposing man whose name he never actually caught.
“...It’s all a matter of you feeling comfortable enough to come back,” he’s saying, looking across the table with far too much pity in his eyes, and goddamn, Monty wishes he’d never agreed to this. “We’d make sure to tread lightly.”
“You could not put on your heaviest boots and clomp through the hedges like last time?” he asks, just a bit of an edge to his words.
The producer winces. “I wasn’t here the last time.”
“It’s all the same, though. You need a story, I’m supposed to provide it?”
“Not at the expense of your health. You should eat, you know.”
Monty takes what can only be described as the most spiteful bite of salad in the history of tense job interviews. “So, what, now I’m the token queer guy on the show? We’re pulling the Oh, look how far we’ve come angle? Or is it He’s just like any other competitor, except he wears fishnets and a pink suit?”
“Neither, actually. Although from what I've heard, I thought you would enjoy the pink. You’d still be paired up, judged the same, get the same amount of input into your costumes—"
“So, none,” Monty cuts in, remembering the absolutely horrid checkered suit he’d been forced to wear his first season. He would’ve quit at the sight of it, if not for legal obligations.
“Well, yes, none. You could talk about it if you wanted, or you could not acknowledge it at all. I’ll be telling the host and the judges not to bring up your sexuality. And for the sake of ensuring you’re comfortable, you’d get a bit more input into who you’re partnered with.”
“Meaning?”
“We’d present you with a first option, and if you’d like, you can veto and we’ll have someone else on standby,” the producer says.
“Ah.” He’s fairly certain he’ll never hear the end of it from the others if it gets out he got a choice. Not after Theodosia got stuck with a douchey stand-up comedian for three weeks until she decided it wasn’t worth the money and bombed a performance just to get eliminated. “Special treatment?”
“Well, a bit. Mostly because the team wants you back on the show.”
“Have I mentioned I’m just doing this for the money? Because really, if you’re looking for someone who wants to go all the way, I’m not it.” God, shut up. Shut up or he’ll change his mind and your contract will get cancelled all over again.
The producer quirks an eyebrow at Monty. What’s his name? Something with an S. After weeks of painful sobriety, the wine is wrecking him far more than it should be. “You’re not selling this well. Do you actually want to come back? There are plenty of other opportunities out there for you.”
Truthfully, Monty hadn’t wanted to come back. But two months out of rehab, the medical bills had started piling up, and his mother finally pulled herself together and decided to leave, but she hadn’t the forethought to get a job or save any money or even try to get a lawyer, and he felt a certain obligation to pay for some of it. After all, he was the reason she wanted to get out in the first place. And there weren’t nearly as many job offers as the producer (Skippy?) thought. When your only redeeming quality is ruined, it’s harder to get on TV. Monty’s never seen a sex symbol who looks like half of his face has been run over by a flaming truck, and there’s only so much makeup artists can do. So here he is, pretending like he’s not begging for his old job back.
Instead of explaining any of this, he pastes on what is hopefully a convincing smirk and says, “I’m just playing hard to get.”
…………
Percy was expecting a camera crew and six mildly famous people in pantsuits and several fans of Nine to Jive breathing down his neck the entire time, but really, it’s just lunch. Lunch with Helena Robles, who is batshit terrifying and has a look about her like she’s going to crack his skull open so she can check he’s not thinking ill of her and then hide his body in her enormous leather purse. Maybe this is worse.
His aunt’s words are still running around his head. Make eye contact. Tell her how honored you are to be there. Be humble, but not too humble. Don’t wear jeans. Right now he’s failing on every front, staring at his soup, mouth clamped shut and face flushed with embarrassment. Although really, do black jeans really count as jeans? Can Helena even tell?
“So you’ll be one of our nine celebrity contestants, and you’ll be paired with one of our professional dancers. Depending on how far you make it, you’ll move from one dance a week to two, and if you make the finals, you’ll do three, including, obviously, a jive, but I wouldn’t worry about that.” Is that a jab? Percy can’t tell.
“Celebrity contestant?” he asks, because that’s easier to deal with than Helena’s possible passive-aggressive insult. “I’m not really a celebrity. I mean, I write music, but it’s not like anyone’s throwing articles of clothing at me or asking me to be on Saturday Night Live.” Is that too humble? It’s the truth.
Helena gives him an unimpressed look. “You have eight million monthly listeners on Spotify.”
“Well, yes, but that’s— people can have more than one account, you know. And I have a big family.” “You think eight million people only listen to your music because you’re related to them?”
It sounds absolutely idiotic when she says it in that tone. Percy scrambles for another point of protest. “Your viewer base hasn’t even heard of me! I’m a twenty-year-old American violinist whose fans are mostly young gays starved for representation.”
She snorts. “Free publicity, then.”
And okay. He really can’t argue with that. “So, you’re offering me a job?”
“I thought that was obvious. The show runs nine weeks total, but you only stay on until you’re eliminated and then come back for the finale. You’d get paid by the episode, but you’re guaranteed at least one hundred thousand pounds for coming on for the first two weeks.”
Jesus fucking Christ. “One hundred thousand?” Percy chokes out, suddenly very concerned about the fact that he wore jeans. He wore jeans to an interview for a job that pays one hundred thousand pounds for two weeks of work.
“Yes.” The corner of Helena’s mouth twitches in what could be amusement. “We can sign the paperwork now, if you’d like.”
And God, Percy’s aunt will skin him alive if he doesn’t. And his traitorous brain is running five million minutes ahead of schedule, planting him on a ballroom floor, feeling the same rush he gets from playing shows that he doesn’t have the money to put on right now. And if he absolutely bombs it, he’ll never hear a word about branching out again. And if he doesn’t, well, that’ll be another thing entirely.
“Okay.”
…………
There’s nothing to prepare Percy for the absolute chaos of the week that follows. He’s carted to and from studios for costume fittings and lighting checks. He goes to the doctor twice, once because part of his contract says that he has to be healthy in order to participate, and once to pick up enough medication to last him the three months in London. It’s only three days until he leaves with his aunt-slash-agent Mary Powell when his entire extended family, aunts and uncles and cousins he hasn’t seen in years, fly into Nashville to wish him luck after someone (read: his father, a little bit buzzed and very proud) broke the news that he was going to be on TV on Facebook. There are five people staying in his one-bedroom, and Percy might just lose his mind if he’s got to endure another night of tripping over relatives in order to get to the bathroom or have coffee, so he’s bundled up against the cold and slipping out the door when he nearly smacks foreheads with his mother.
She starts. “Oh! Percy!”
“Hi, Mama. What are you doing here?” Percy’s mother lives out in the suburbs. Normally, he’s the one making the trip.
“I stopped over at your daddy’s place and he made you a casserole,” she says, holding up a bag stuffed with Tupperware containers. “But if you’re heading out then I can come back later.”
“No, no, no!” Percy says quickly, pulling the door shut behind him as one of his aunts waves hello to his mother. He’ll be damned before he gets dragged back into that apartment. He loves his family, he really does, but there’s only so many times you can listen to a woman you haven’t seen since you were ten critique your system of dish organization. “You’re fine. I was going for a walk.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Not at all.”
Percy’s mother rambles about her latest date (apparently, he mixed up reservations and accidentally booked a table at a tourist trap restaurant with large plaster dinosaurs hiding load-bearing posts) and how his second cousin has already broken three vases practicing tennis inside the house as they take the elevator down and wander out the lobby doors. It’s all so normal that he forgets that he’s due to leave in three days until she asks if he’s found out who his partner is.
“We don’t find out until the first day of rehearsal—it’s supposed to be a live reaction thing.”
She makes a face at that. “You don’t even get a hint? What if y’all hate each other?”
“That’s kind of the point. There’s supposed to be ‘interesting dynamics’ between partners, whatever that means.” Percy shrugs. “I think the producers normally pick people who are pretty different.”
“They better not make you dance with some stuck-up, country-music-hating city boy, or you two’ll strangle each other by the end of the first rehearsal,” Percy’s mother says, and he can’t help but laugh.
“We live in a city too, Mama. And not liking country doesn’t automatically make you stuck-up.”
“Just uncultured.”
“Maybe. Besides, they don’t have two guys dance together anyway.”
“Really?” She tilts her head and stops in front of a bakery. “It’s a dance competition. I thought they’d’ve had plenty of opportunities for queer folks to perform.”
Percy pulls the door open and snorts. “It’s surprisingly straight.”
…………
Promotional photos are going to drive Monty insane if his hangover doesn’t do the job first. He’s been stuffed into the same god-awful suit as the rest of the male professionals, had a woman with bad breath try to smear concealer over his burn scars for half an hour before giving up and suggesting plastic surgery, dealt with three phone calls from his mother panicking about how to use a chip and pin machine, and on top of it all, he’s stuck next to Richard fucking Peele and expected to smile and not commit homicide. The photographer is still organizing the ladies when Richard first whispers an invitation to do something more enjoyable.
“I’d rather gouge out my own eyes,” Monty spits, perhaps a little too loud. One of his coworkers, a rather muscly ginger, turns to raise an eyebrow at him, and Monty shoots him a glare. He is not going to let some prick with no concept of how to properly tie a bowtie make him feel ashamed.
Of course, Monty reasons half an hour later, kneeling on the floor of a supply closet nestled in a back hallway of the studio and watching Richard slam the door as he leaves, it’s not like he needs anyone’s help in feeling like shit anyway. His own poor decisions are more than sufficient. It’s a full five minutes before Monty can force himself to stand up and fix his hair, wincing at the way his knees pop. He’s so busy stewing in self-hatred that he forgets to check if there’s anyone in the hall before he stumbles out the door, and it’s too late to hide again when he notices the man leaning against the wall opposite him.
“Are you alright?” the man asks softly, pulling out an earbud and staring at him, and damn it all, why did he have to be cute? So, so cute, with curly hair in a ponytail and limbs a little too stretched out for his body and long piano-player hands. And wait—
“Absolutely smashing, darling,” Monty says, but, of course, his voice cracks on the last word, because Christ, is that who he thinks it is? He’s different, not clinging to that ancient violin like it’s a lifeline, not bathed in spotlights and seeming a million miles away.
“You just— what were you doing in a supply closet? Is that a thing y’all do over here, just hang out in closets? Am I missing something?” Shit. Think, what’s a plausible explanation besides ‘I was doing my obligatory post-Richard five minutes of shame-sulking’?
“Y’all?” is what spills out of Monty’s mouth, because he’s still a little bit stuck on the sheer warmth in that single syllable, and the fact that of all the people they could’ve brought on this season, they picked him. “Who says y’all?” Fuck. “I mean—” His eyes catch on a case at the man’s feet, a violin case, and Monty is dangerously close to a hysterical laugh.
“Who says ‘absolutely smashing’?” he asks in a bastardized British accent, and Monty really doesn’t have a response to that other than an open-mouthed gape.
“You’re— Sorry, it’s just— You’re Percy Newton.”
Percy Newton’s mouth falls open. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I thought you were making fun of— my family was convinced that British people were going to all be stuck-up and I told them that that’s stupid because I’ve been here before but I guess it rubbed off on me and— sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry, I panicked. I mean, not because of you. I didn’t panic because of you. That’s not it.”
Jesus. Percy Newton is coming on the show. Percy Newton, who’s written the songs Monty cries to at three in the morning. Percy Newton, who was on the cover of the Rolling Stone six months ago and casually peppered in the fact that he was trans and demi into his interview. Percy Newton, who Monty saw on tour in between this season and the last, who plays violin and sings like a goddamned angel, who looked like an angel too, up on that stage, and may or may not have had every single one of his Instagram posts liked by Monty. Not that that’s strange.
“Oh.” The corner of Percy Newton’s mouth twitches. “Okay. I’ll just—” he moves to pick up his violin case and Monty is absolutely scrambling for anything to say.
“Your post,” he squeaks out after a moment. “Of, well, you. And the flowers. At that restaurant. From three weeks ago. You were- it was pretty.”
“Thank you?”
And then, because Monty is pretty damn sure he’s going to spontaneously combust if he stands here and makes a fool of himself any longer, he turns on his heel and leaves.
…………
A week later, the day they start filming, Monty still hasn’t recovered from his absolute disaster of a conversation with Percy Newton. Percy Newton. Technically speaking, Monty is famous. He’s met Elton fucking John, for God’s sake. There is absolutely no rational reason he should be this much of a mess over an indie artist with a beat-up violin case and absolutely gorgeous hands.
Of course, Felicity is tired of hearing about this by now. She huffs on the other end of the line and grumbles something about her sleep schedule, but Monty keeps on barrelling forwards. “—And I don’t get it. Feli, it’s abso-bloody-lutley ridiculous. Sobriety really is fucking with me. I can barely hold a conversation anymore.” Well. Semi-sobriety, anyway. He’s slipped up once or twice after he agreed to come back to the show.
“I don’t think sobriety is your issue here,” Felicity says, that same lilt to her voice that she always gets whenever she’s certain she’s right.
“What is it then?” Monty challenges, sprawling across the folding chairs the producers have set up in the corner of the studio. He’s waiting for whatever B-list actress they’ve paired him up with to get to the first day of rehearsals, so naturally, he had to pester Felicity in his spare time.
“You’ve been moony over him for months. Which, by the way, makes zero sense to me. How can you possibly be attracted to someone you’ve never met?”
“First off, Feli, you’re not attracted to anyone you have met, so I don’t really think you’re in a position to criticize who I think is fit. Also, who said I was attracted to him? I’m not.”
She scoffs. “Monty, you just got done telling me how pretty his hands are. You have that goddamn Rolling Stone sitting on your coffee table every time I come to your apartment.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You don’t get the Rolling Stone, Monty. You don’t read unless it’s tabloids, texts, or song lyrics.”
“I resent that!” he says, although really, she’s right. Monty doesn’t think he’s read a book all the way through since he dropped out of uni three years ago. “I am an intellectual, Felicity Montague.”
Monty can tell she’s making her you’re so full of shit face. “Anyway. How long will it be before I have to knock six times before I use the key because he’s staying over at yours?”
“I’m sorry, have we not been over the fact that I was a disaster to rival that ghastly suit?”
“You’re never going to get over that, are you?”
“It was monstrous, Feli. I’m fairly certain I could’ve sued for psychological damage and won.” Monty stretches out some more across the chairs, letting his head hang off of the side so he can stare at the far wall with his phone pressed to his good ear. “It doesn’t matter though, because I’m only going to see him on competition days, and I’m not embarrassing myself again. I’m never speaking to him again.” There’s a soft knock on the door, and Monty starts. “Shit, Feli, partner’s here.”
“Good luck. Hope you wind up with someone else you can make a fool of yourself in front of.”
“Yeah, ha ha.” He rolls to the side and narrowly avoids smacking his face on the hardwood flooring. “Laugh it up at your poor brother.”
“With pleasure,” Felicity shoots back, and before Monty can think of something snarky to say back, she hangs up.
There’s another knock. “Sorry, yeah, one second,” Monty calls, picking himself up off the floor, ruffling his hair, and smirking. If his partner is doomed to be stuck with a scandal like him, the least he can do is look the part. “Come in, darling! Welcome to Nine to—” The words die in his throat.
“Hi, darlin’,” Percy Newton says, grinning sheepishly in the doorway, and Monty is abso-bloody-lutely fucked.