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There was nothing of lighting left besides a dim orange reflector pointing at the opposite corner and the slit of scenery out at the stage, the glimpse of stupidly expectant faces of the audience and the vivacious voice of Christian O’Connell. And for the first time in his life, Jeremy finds himself afraid of light and exposure. Everything in him proposes the safety of darkness, a heavy cloak for rampant thoughts that he desperately tries to keep off his face, growing terrified by the second of the facade slowly crumpling in front of cameras and millions of people behind their lenses.
Regardless, he’s never left the obligation uncompleted, unless he was medically or legally obstructed. Personal issues have no business being brought into the spotlight no matter how heavy or sudden.
Then why is it so hard to keep them concealed in front of two people hiding behind the curtains with him in close proximity? Is it being knotted so tightly together for over a decade that they’ve inhabited each other’s skin? Or is it the knowledge of each other’s air hardwired into their psyche? Whatever it is, it makes Richard finally approach him. Jeremy had seen him casting subtle glances out of the corner of his eye and knew it was a matter of time before he tried playing emotional support Hamster. Despite his over-the-top tough blokeishness on-screen, he is the watcher of the three. He’s the one to share a bottle of water with the other two after a difficult task, and never goes by without a straightforward but necessary “You alright?”. Richard is their glue, and even before his accident, he always was.
It makes sense for him to notice Jeremy's distress despite Jeremy’s carefully constructed mask specially adjusted for deceiving the two of them, like he somehow has the ability to see into Jeremy’s heart.
However, when Richard approaches, he doesn’t say anything at first. And Jeremy sure as hell won’t speak first. He makes a strange movement with his lips, something between a pout and a stretch of the corner, but he knows his eyes are glazed over and tired, carrying within them caffeine, nicotine, energy drinks, and months’ worth of worry as he stares across the slit in the curtain at the fidgeting crowd who would rather O’Connell shortens his intro.
When Richard speaks, his voice is hoarse and quiet, carefully methodical. “Do you want to leave?”
Jeremy makes a stifled sound and for a moment he wonders if bluster would still work just to buy him some time. But Richard’s expression promises no shit will be taken.
Without control, Jeremy sags like a rotten tree, a loud sigh of exhaustion escaping his lips. He wipes a hand across his eyes without resulting relief. “I'm so tired.” He hates how strained his voice is.
Richard takes Jeremy’s hands and presses both palm valley points, telling him to breathe in regularly, out sharply. Jeremy does, without questioning him. He lowers his eyelids until they’re almost closed, but open enough that he can see a blurry silhouette of James standing a few steps away, watching silently. There’s a steaming cup of tea in his hands and his shoes are infuriatingly eye-stabbing even in the dark.
“I feel like something awful is going to happen”, he continues to talk in spite of the rational part of his mind telling him to shut up.
“None of that. Don't say that here or now.” Richard says looking down at their hands like he's deeply concentrated on some complex act, but is actually giving Jeremy emotional space by avoiding eye contact, Jeremy realises. He is allowing Jeremy the leverage to initiate anything else.
Jeremy is so incredibly grateful for this freedom that he allows himself to admit he loves this man to death. It seems like a safe decision, here in the semi-dark and relative silence. He continues to breathe until most of the squeezing tension is alleviated from his chest.
“You know we're with you, right?” Richard says again, quietly and privately, something that the audience out there won't see, ever, while Richard is in the spotlight. Here, in darkness, Jeremy isn't surprised at all.
“Thank you”, he says.
Richard still doesn’t look at him, but it’s probably for the better. The candour is enough. An eye contact would just make it awkward.
“Now unless you’re telling me you haven’t had a run to the loo and there’s a possibility your weak old bladder is going to let you down, I must insist that nothing awful will happen in the immediate future. And the distant one does not concern you right now.”
After a moment, Richard releases his hands and instructs him gently, but with firmness that warns against contradiction, to tap his fingertips across his collarbone a few times. Something about coaxing primitive courage. Then he creates respectful distance between them, like the best fucking friend that he is.
James offers him tea. Jeremy refuses. An errand boy with an earpiece tells them they’re on in a minute.
Final deep breath and the mask is firmly in place. To the best of Jeremy’s current abilities.
. . .
He all but collapses into the armchair in the back with the finishing applause still ringing in his ears, feeling like he had run a hundred miles. The room tips over like the inside of the Rubik’s cube and Jeremy’s feet feel miles away from his head. There’s probably a tall joke in there somewhere but Jeremy doesn’t care. He’s just lucky that he didn’t faceplant the floor. He raises a hand to massage his forehead and then suddenly, that same hand is holding a glass of something transparent and way too sweet. He grimaces but Richard’s voice urges him to tip it all back. Making his stomach churn even harder really wasn’t necessary.
The top button of the shirt collar is already undone, but Jeremy thumbs open another one, aware of movement in the room. The door opens and a stern voice orders someone to get out. It sounds vaguely like James. Or not. Jeremy doesn’t know. The tingling in his fingers, cheekbones and temples signals the upcoming panic attack. Tightness in the chest and stinging pain on the left side only speeds up its ascent and Jeremy’s breathing escalates.
“Here”, says Richard, relieving him of a trembling glass, and presses a hand into his upper back. The other hand finds the back of Jeremy’s neck, thumb and other fingers finding each side of the muscle, then begins to carve deep, firm strokes up and down.
Jeremy doesn’t start to hyperventilate. In fact, from the outside it looks like he’s causing a scene, as per his famed dramatic persona, but his head feels dispersed and pressured, like the chaotic whirlpool is trying its best to leave his skull. He doesn’t even acknowledge how unexpected Richard’s touch is, nor with how much expertise he’s sending blood exactly where it needs to go.
That absurdly eye-stabbing pair of shoes enters the haze of his vision. “Jeremy.”
Like magic, his own name cloaked in James’ voice reaches past the rushing sound in his ears, causing his body to immediately decelerate and start to deflate and, navigated by Richard's repetitive strokes, Jeremy slowly gains back control.
A hand finds his, recognizable in weight and shape, and yet Jeremy can’t believe it’s grasping his own in any way more intimate than handshake, yet here it is. Anything but blandly formal. Jeremy grips it so hard that he probably stops James’ bloodflow, but James doesn’t complain.
When Jeremy stops feeling like his mind is detached from his body, his grip eases and he nods and shakes his head at careful questions, which he hates unless they are not a welcome relief after such a shock. Richard’s hand is gone from his neck, but the other one is still gripping Jeremy’s shoulder. There’s likely a metaphor there about him never straying too far for Jeremy not to be able to lean on him.
It takes him three tries to stand up and only then James lets go of his hand. He isn’t looking at the floor or away, but the gaze he locks on Jeremy’s isn’t sympathetic or concerned. It’s methodical, professional. Like Jeremy is a broken thing needed to be mended. Which isn’t that far from the truth.
It becomes clear, after a few breaths, that he is waiting for Jeremy to speak first. ‘I need fucking help’, he wants to say half-jokingly, but what leaves his mouth is a cold-hearted truth.
“I'm so tired.”
Richard’s hand pats his shoulder. The contact is manly and firm enough to keep Jeremy aware of where they are. But James’ voice is everything his eyes aren’t.
“Do you need something? Something we can get you?”
The layering of colour in it nearly throws Jeremy off balance again. It lacks the flat irony Jeremy is acquainted with and as controlled as it remains, there is an underlying richness in it that reaches only the ears of those who are perfectly tuned to the subtle palette of James' voice. Like Jeremy, whose last remains of professional rigidness fall out under that small subtle sign that James is far from a stone-cold bastard he had been deemed so often.
“A fucking hug would be nice”, Jeremy says, mustering up a breath of ungenuine laughter that doesn't reach the rest of his face.
James doesn’t tease him or call him names. He doesn’t scoff or tries to make it easier on him or tells him to stop being a wet girl's blouse. Instead, he reaches for him with minimal hesitation. Jeremy is too grateful to be surprised that he’s on the receiving end of a hug from the most touch-averse person in the world and buries his face into the safety of James’ neck.
James smells like a human body, void of concealing fragrances like an aftershave or a shampoo. It’s not a pleasant smell but it’s real enough for Jeremy to start feeling like he’s coming back down on Earth. He grabs on tighter like he would a climbing rope on a cliffside. There is a minuscule tremble to the body against him but James' grasp doesn't weaken, to Jeremy's eternal gratitude. James, the polite sod, is giving him time and space to break contact when he needed to. The amount of freedom and understanding he’s been given from these two men in minutes of weakness he would never have allowed in front of anyone else only affirms his love for them.
Another arm rounds Jeremy's back and warmth covers the right side of the body. He can smell Richard's expensive cologne and wriggles one arm out of this compact, unlikely bundle of man-contact to gather Richard closer. The rope is squeezing around his neck; Francie's divorce is finalising and his mother's state is worsening by the day. By now little to no hope is left that things will go for the better. He hasn't had a proper cry in years, but he feels, ominously, that he won't get to do it when things hit rock bottom either. Still, having two of the closest people in his life so close, as it were, he doesn't feel the need to. Not yet. He just feels incredibly calm.
He wishes he had no cause to ever break the hug.
Afterwards is a bit of a blur. There's more people in the room, and Christian O'Connell's face comes into view at some point, to which Jeremy isn't aware what exactly he's saying, but there's mention of tennis. Afterwards, though, the three of them are alone again and are the last to leave, even after the final member of the filming crew and the audience had cleared off.
Suddenly, things are less simple, more awkward, but the amount of exhaustion Jeremy feels isn't any less heavy.
Richard, the face-reader, notices it right away, probably had noticed hours or days earlier and when Jeremy says he'll get a move on, he says, “Don't get me wrong, old chap, but I don’t think you should be driving in this state.”
“I hate to agree with the Hamster, but he's right. You've looked like a bag of shit before but enough is enough. You don't get to lift a single finger for the rest of the day if we have anything to say about it.”
The finality of it is heart-warming and hilarious in retrospect, as there is no funnier James than a cross or bossy James, but Jeremy doesn't have the spirit to retort. There is only strength to react with a sigh of resignation.
“Come on”, Richard encourages in that ever-benevolent tone, with the addition of a gently urging touch on Jeremy’s elbow, as James holds out his hand.
Jeremy fishes out the car keys without a word. The only indicator in another upcoming emotional explosion is apparent in the trembles of his fingers that would go completely unnoticed if the keys didn’t fill the silence with soft jingles. Jeremy holds them out and James takes them unhesitatingly, but his fingers half-envelop Jeremy's, too. The touch is fleeting, less than two seconds, and yet it holds monumental meaning, particularly coming from James. He drags his fingers across Jeremy's, deliberate and loaded with undercurrent of indirect signs, and Jeremy gets the message.
“Where do you want to go?” James asks.
Jeremy manages a weak shrug. “Anywhere. As long as it doesn't have Wi-Fi but has something to drink.”
James nods. “I know just a place.”