Chapter Text
‘Here,’ said Trevor, handing Chris an ice pack as he passed prompt corner. Chris fumbled the ice pack before pressing it to his throbbing wrist. He’d fallen over a chair in the third act, that someone – he suspected Max by the guilty looks he’d been throwing Chris’ way - had moved by accident, landing awkwardly on his wrist. He was fairly certain it was just sprained, but it had still hindered his performance slightly, fumbling several props, and almost dropping Vanessa at one point when she fainted. Trevor had asked him at the scene change if he was alright while trying to fly in a backdrop, but immediately lost interest in Chris’ answer when he realised it was the wrong backdrop.
Chris shouldered open his dressing room door before kicking it shut behind him. Dennis was already in the room, apparently stuck in his costume that was up over his head.
‘Come here,’ said Chris, in a resigned voice. Using both hands to wrestle the rest of the costume over Dennis’ head, flinching when his left wrist wasn’t happy with the movement.
‘Thanks, Chris,’ said Dennis when he was free. He hung up his costume before happily heading towards the showers, leaving Chris alone in the dressing room. Chris sat down on the too low sofa, letting his wrist rest on his leg, the ice pack precariously balanced on top. He felt awful, and not just because his wrist was hurting. Double show days always left him a little on the tired side, but this was more than the midweek matinee hurdle. His head ached and his throat hurt, but that could also reasonably be from the amount of haze he had inhaled during the second act. They’d need to get that fixed before tomorrow’s show. Or the other culprit could be the scene where he’d had to yell all his lines over the noise of the sound check that was coming through the wall from the club next door to the venue.
Chris had spent the time between the matinee and the evening show pouring over the end of month financials. He’d heard plans being made for dinner that evening, drifting through his open dressing room door, which was confirmed when Max stuck his head round the door to say they were going to order in pizza when they got back to the digs they were renting for the last week of their tour.
However, all Chris wanted to do at that moment in time was crawl into the foreign double bed he’d claimed on Monday afternoon and would be waving goodbye to on Sunday morning. He indulged himself in the brief fantasy of being reunited with his own flat, curling up under the covers on Sunday evening and not emerging until they started rehearsals on Tuesday for the next series of Play of the Week for the BBC. He knew that wouldn’t end up being possible though, as he had a pre-production meeting with the BBC on Monday at 10am.
Chris was still daydreaming, slouched on the settee, his head resting against the wall when Dennis came back from his shower, looking more relaxed and much more like his amenable self.
‘Um, Robert has just used the last of the hot water.’
‘Of course he has,’ Chris muttered under his breath, not opening his eyes as Dennis started to get dressed.
‘Anyone seen Chris?’
‘I’m here,’ Chris replied, emerging out of stage door to find the entirety of the Drama Society waiting on him. Despite not being able to shower, he’d wrapped himself back up in several layers, a scarf wound round his neck multiple times in an attempt to preserve his aching throat.
‘Right, I’m hitting order, which means we’ve got twenty minutes to get back to digs,’ Annie said, before turning on her heel and marching off down the street. Chris didn’t even remember voicing what he wanted, but he had no doubt that Annie would have ordered something he liked.
‘Is your wrist okay?’ Max asked as he joined Chris at the back of their weird procession making their way down the street, all chatting amenable.
‘It’s fine, Max.’ Chris smiled at him, giving him a pat on the back in reassurance. Truth was, it was still hurting somewhat, even after he’d awkwardly wrapped it up in a supportive bandage. He wrapped his coat further round him and trailed behind everyone else as Max stepped forward to put an arm around Sandra. Chris tucked his chin into his scarf, coughing slightly to try and ease the ache in his throat.
Pizza arrived not long after they did, delivered by an extremely Welsh man who pronounced pepperoni with far more vowels than were necessarily in the word. Chris had settled himself into one of the tatty armchairs in the front room, watching as pizza boxes were handed round and a good-natured argument about whether or not pineapple belonged on pizza broke out. It was a debate that cropped up nearly every time they ordered pizza and monstrously divided the house of Grove and Tyde.
Trevor handed him a bottle of beer on his way back from the kitchen, but Chris felt like he didn’t want anything less at that moment in time. He took it anyway with a muttered ‘thanks’, putting it down on the floor beside him where it stayed for the remainder of the evening.
He picked at one of the margaritas, happy that Dennis was tearing into the other half with gusto so that he didn’t have to pretend to eat more than he could stomach. While Jonathon fired up the ancient DVD player and Trevor struggled to work out if it was possible to cast from his phone to the TV instead, Chris excused himself to the bathroom.
He spent a while sat on the floor with his head leaning against the garishly tiled wall next to the toilet, contemplating whether or not he was going to be sick, but thankfully nothing materialised. He closed his eyes, shivering slightly, even as he relished how good the cold tile felt against his aching head.
‘Chris, you in there?’
He thought about lying for a minute, but since Annie had probably come from the living room where everyone else was gathered, it couldn’t be anyone else but him in the bathroom.
‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ he mumbled, pulling himself back to his feet, feeling unsteady. He flushed the toilet for good measure and washed his hands, throwing some water on his face, which provided a splash of relief against his too warm skin.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Annie was blocking his way, staring critically at him. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine, just tired. Going to head to bed. Goodnight.’ His words came out in a rush as he stepped round the formidable woman and beat a hasty retreat to the room he’d claimed as his own. It was the room with the least garish wallpaper, large red peonies adorning it, for which Chris and his headache were appreciative. He divested himself of his clothes, replacing them with pyjamas and lowered himself onto the bed, curling up under the covers. He pressed the side of his head that ached into the cool pillow and wished for sleep to come swiftly, hoping that he’d feel better come morning.