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“Can you tell us about your dynamic on and off the show?” the interviewer asked, his voice a little tinny over the Zoom speakers of the laptop Greg and Alex had been set up on in a conference room of Avalon’s New York offices. “Because obviously it’s – well, I mean, it’s very funny but I’m sure everyone’s aware by now that you Greg, you don’t set the tasks, Alex does, so how much of the rest of it is real?”
It was their third interview of the morning and, having been asked a variation of this question in each interview, Greg was growing a little tired of his usual, canned answer. Still, he managed a wan smile as he assured the interviewer, “Oh, it’s all real.”
“He’s really very nice to me,” Alex told him, and Greg knew immediately from just the slightest change in his tone that he’d slipped into Little Alex Horne. “He lets me wash his back. And sometimes he even lets me sleep on the bed.”
Alex didn’t glance sideways at Greg to make sure that the joke set-up landed because he didn’t need to, not anymore. They’d been playing this game for long enough that Greg knew his cue, knew Alex had teed him up for a joke about making him sleep at the foot of the bed, or to correct him that by bed, he clearly meant dog bed. Greg was a consummate professional, and he had his lines down pat.
He just didn’t particularly feel like delivering them.
“The truth is that the only time I’m ever genuinely irritated with Alex is during the banter section, when he’s doing his best to annoy me,” Greg said. “My theory is that he deliberately annoys me so that I’m suitably cross. It’s his way of getting me into the character of the Taskmaster, because otherwise, I really am not a mean or cruel person.”
Alex’s arms were crossed in front of his chest and Greg could see from the corner of his eye the way Alex tapped his fingers against his upper arm, the tiniest show of irritation that Greg wasn’t playing along with his set up. But now that he’d started, Greg couldn’t find it in himself to stop. “And I think what irritates me most is that Alex really is very funny, but so much of the audience never gets to see that because he deliberately chooses not to be as funny as he could be.”
“Because it’s what works for you?” the interviewer asked.
Greg nodded. “Because it’s what works for the show, yeah.” Alex’s fingers had stopped moving but Greg could tell it was only because he’d dug them into his arm. “Because it gets me to where I can be the most funny. Alex will always go above and beyond and give his everything for the show and for the joke.” He shrugged, chancing a glance at the man next to him, immediately noticing how red Alex’s ears had gone. “He’s incredibly humble, to the point of irritation, like he’s just happy to have been invited along on his own television programme. And that’s why it works. He just has absolutely no ego about it and it really brings the contestants and the audience along with him. They trust him because they know even if they end up looking a fool, at least Alex will also.”
“Well, it’s easy to appear like you have no ego when you’re sitting next to, erm, well—”
Alex pretended to fumble his implication regarding Greg’s oversized ego and was rewarded by the interviewer laughing as Greg fell back into their usual schtick, asking Alex, faux-offended, “Oi, what’re you implying?”
“Nothing, Greg,” Alex assured him, eyes wide and innocent, but Greg could see him relax, just slightly.
The interviewer laughed again. “So is this the basis of your friendship?” he pressed.
“It’s certainly the basis of the many punishments I’ve had to dole out over the years,” Greg said with just the hint of a growl before he glanced at Alex and added, with far more sincerity, “But I think anytime you spend this long working with someone, you learn what makes them tick. And for Alex in particular, I think it takes a certain level of genius to properly navigate the line of being purposefully unfunny in a still entertaining way.”
He could see something in Alex’s expression tighten, and perhaps the interviewer could too because he changed the subject to ask Alex something about the creative process of coming up with the tasks, which was usually Greg’s cue to sit silently until he got bored enough to interject. But today, he knew Alex would greatly prefer if Greg let him get through it so he could wrap things up.
Greg really did know Alex very well at this point, after all, and could read the tension tightening his shoulders just as clearly as if the man had spoken aloud. Clearer, probably, given Alex’s penchant for oblique comments and maddeningly vague hums to indicate everything from mild amusement to severe disapproval.
And he had the sense enough to recognise he was on the latter end of that spectrum at the moment.
What he didn’t know was why.
Alex always had trouble with praise, to be fair, especially for anything he generally deemed a team effort, but Greg sensed this was more than that. Something about Greg bringing it up here and now and like this had set Alex on edge in a way Greg hadn’t seen since early days when they had still been working on developing both their on- and off-screen dynamic.
Which certainly didn’t bode well for the rest of their trip together.
Thankfully, they made it through the remainder of the interview without issue, and Alex seemed his usual, genial self when thanking the interviewer for his time, encouraging him to let him know what he thought after he watched the first few episodes of the series. Then the Zoom call ended and Alex shut the lid of the laptop in a firm sort of way.
Greg winced, though he wasn’t sure why. “That went well,” he offered, as a sort of olive branch.
One that Alex didn’t take. “We need to head back to the hotel,” he said, not quite meeting Greg’s eyes. “Get changed ahead of Seth Meyers tonight, and we’ve got two more interviews this afternoon—”
“Is everything all right?” Greg interrupted, if only to save himself from sitting through Alex’s robotic recitation of their diary.
“Fine.”
Alex said it automatically, and Greg frowned. “Doesn’t feel like it,” he said, hesitating before starting, “Should we maybe…”
He trailed off without actually finishing the question, but Alex still jerked a nod. “Yes,” he said, before exhaling heavily and adding, in just a hint of a cautious undertone, “Not here.”
Greg’s frown deepened, because it wasn’t as though they were likely to be interrupted unless someone needed the room, but he decided not to press his luck at that point. “Fine,” he said, aiming for airy and probably just sounding passive-aggressive. “Your hotel room or mine?”
They went to Alex’s.
It was, all things considered, the safer option for any variety of reasons, but Greg couldn’t help but feel it also kept him purposefully off-kilter as he lowered himself into one of the industrial grey chairs that was unbelievably uncomfortable for a man of his stature.
Alex glanced at him, not quite smiling, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just slightly. “You can sit on the bed, you realise,” he said, taking his own advice and perching on the edge of the bed.
Greg just shook his head. “Think you and I both know that’s not a good idea,” he said.
Just like they both knew exactly why.
But Alex huffed a sigh just this side of exasperated and gave Greg a look. “There’re two beds,” he pointed out. “And I’m very clearly only using one of them.”
“Why’ve we got two beds anyway?” Greg asked, changing the subject. “And double beds on top of it. How many beds can one person sleep in?”
Alex shrugged, his expression not changing. “Evidently it was cheaper to get rooms with two doubles than one king.”
Greg pulled a face. “Tell that to Avalon when I submit my chiropractor bills for reimbursement,” he said grumpily.
Alex rolled his eyes. “Well, then, as executive producer I’m ordering you to sit on the bed so as not to exacerbate your back further.”
He said it dryly, but with enough of his showrunner voice that Greg knew he was serious, and Greg hesitated for a moment more before standing and shuffling to sit on the second bed across from Alex, the space between the two beds narrow enough that Greg’s knees knocked against Alex’s. He glanced at Alex. “So,” he prompted.
“So,” Alex echoed, though he didn’t continue, tucking his hands under his thighs as if afraid of what he might do with them otherwise.
When the silence between them had gotten so thick that Greg felt like his lungs were burning from breathing it, he cleared his throat and started, with a grim sort of determination, “The interview did go well.” Alex lifted his eyes to meet his, a frown puckering his forehead, and Greg barrelled onward. “All of them have, really. Even the Q&A last night, other than, well, you know, the issue with the tickets. But still, I think enthusiasm for the next series may actually be an all time high, though of course it’s not as though I’ve got much to compare the American reaction to.”
Alex was still staring blankly at him, something entirely unreadable in his expression. Greg, of course, had played to worse crowds and so forced himself to keep talking, afraid the silence might actually kill him otherwise. “And I reckon Seth Meyers’ show will go well. He’s done the Fringe, of course, so he’s not liable to be as thrown as some of the American Talk show hosts by our dry British sense of humour, and—”
“I wish you wouldn’t say those things about me,” Alex said abruptly, and Greg was so relieved that he’d finally cut him off that it took him a moment to even process what he’d said.
“What things?” he said finally, and Alex shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes.
“How we’re actually friends, and I know you so well and do the banter like that on purpose to make you funnier, that sort of thing.”
Greg stared at him. “But it’s true,” he said.
True, and innocuous, considering the things that Greg could say about him. Hell, innocuous compared to the shit that Alex scripted for Greg to say about him.
Alex just shrugged again. “Doesn’t mean you should say it.”
“Why not?” Greg asked.
Something tightened in Alex’s expression. “Because it’s easier,” he said, his voice low, “when people think that our dynamic on the show is the same as our dynamic off screen.”
“Easier?” Greg repeated softly.
He knew exactly what Alex had meant by it, but that didn’t mean he still didn’t want to hear him say it. Or maybe he just wanted to see the way Alex’s eyes flickered up to his and then away again, a flash of blue that left Greg’s chest feeling tight.
“Safer,” Alex said after a long moment, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Greg’s chest was tight enough to be painful and he balled his hands in the duvet to keep from reaching for Alex. “You’re the one who keeps writing increasingly domestic shit into the show,” he said, his voice strange to his own ears. “If you were that concerned—”
Alex let out a sharp sigh. “It’s misdirection, you know that,” he said impatiently. “It’s– look, the more we make it clear that it’s absurd, that it’s a joke that we’re both in on, the less people go looking for some other explanation.”
“So what if they do?” Greg asked.
“So you know what’s out there,” Alex said, his voice tight. “You know what they might find if they go digging.”
Greg shook his head, suddenly tired. “We don’t,” he said, scrubbing a hand across his face. “We don’t know what’s out there. We know there was one photo. Once. From years ago.”
“And you know as well as I do that one photo is all it takes.”
Greg knew that he meant one photo could be all it took to ruin their careers, to get Taskmaster cancelled or at least one or both of them replaced, but given that all it had taken was one photo to ruin– well, to ruin them, he still felt Alex’s words like a blow to the stomach.
Especially since the photo in question hadn’t even been that damning, just Greg’s arm slung across Alex’s shoulders as they’d walked down the street towards Greg’s flat one day during the best summer of Greg’s life. Even if, not even thirty seconds after the photo was taken, Greg hadn’t been able to resist leaning in and kissing Alex, forgetting for one glorious moment that they were well known enough that him snogging his married, male co-star would still be considered quite a scandal.
But Alex had never forgotten. Alex, who had taken every opportunity to write their burgeoning relationship into the show just to give them an excuse to flirt, who had spent months negotiating the terms between Rachel and Greg, who had upended his carefully honed schedule to spend almost an entire month at Greg’s while Rachel and the boys were in Ireland, had also walked away the moment there was a minor complication. Walked away from evenings cuddling and laughing on the sofa, from late nights stumbling to Greg’s bed together, from early mornings kissing as the morning light crept over the horizon.
From Greg telling him he loved him.
And now a paparazzi photo published years ago as a footnote in an extra inch of gossip column that needed filling was the only evidence that remained of the greatest thing it also ruined.
And in the meantime, Alex took every opportunity to convince the world, or himself, that it was all a joke. Had all been a joke. Which Greg had no choice but to let him do because he would rather die a thousand deaths – both real deaths and the kind comedians experienced on stage – than ruin Alex’s life. But fuck if it didn’t hurt more with each passing moment, struggling to fit into the role of barely friend, of just work colleagues, of someone who didn’t know what the different taps of Alex’s long fingers meant or the various timbres of his laughs or, worst of all, what it tasted like to kiss that absurd, gap-toothed grin off of his face.
Greg cleared his throat, swallowing down all of that, instead scoffing, “And you think that if they go looking, they’ll, what? Find some paparazzi shot from years ago, and somehow connect that to interviews where I vaguely compliment you to make some wild leap that you and I—”
“The problem is that it wouldn’t be a wild leap,” Alex said quietly.
“You’ve made it clear that it is,” Greg said, rougher than intended
Rough enough that Alex flinched, looking away. “Can you blame me?”
Greg absolutely could, and in his blacker moments, he absolutely did. But it wouldn’t help anything to tell Alex that. “No,” he said instead, before leaning forward, forcing Alex to meet his eyes. “But I will say this – comedy and fear don’t mix. If you want me to toe the stodgy party line, fine, but it stopped being funny years ago, and sooner or later it’ll raise questions of its own.”
Alex met his glare with one of his own. “I want the stodgy party line,” he said, something stubborn in the set of his jaw. “I want you to say you think I’m deliberately unfunny during the banter, I deny it, you say that it drives you mad. Full stop.”
Greg jerked a nod. “And that’s coming from Alex Horne, Executive Producer?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” Greg said, his tone clipped, and he stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Consider it done.” He brushed past Alex, heading for the door, though he couldn’t help but pause before opening it, looking back over his shoulder at Alex, something like rage burning in his chest. “I guess I should just be grateful that you make it so easy for me to hate you sometimes.”
He didn’t wait for Alex to reply, slipping out into the corridor to head to his hotel room with just enough to don the Taskmaster suit like the armour that it had become.
Their last Zoom interview before Seth Meyers, and Greg saw the question coming before the interviewer likely did. “Greg, you’ve made no secret on the show over the years that Alex annoys you. After 17 seasons, does he still annoy you?”
“Perpetually,” Greg said flatly. He didn’t look at Alex. “He lives to annoy me. He built an entire section into the show just so that he can be unfunny. Not that it’s hard for him, of course.”
The interviewer laughed, but there was something strained in the sound, as if she wasn’t fully sure whether Greg was joking or not.
“We’re friends,” Alex interjected brightly and Greg shook his head.
“Colleagues at best,” he corrected. “After the omelette thing—”
Alex groaned lightly as if he couldn’t believe Greg was still bringing this up, which of course piqued the interviewer’s interest. “Omelette thing?”
Greg leaned forward as if he was sharing a conspiratorial secret. “This morning, instead of having anything from the frankly absurd breakfast buffet at our hotel, this prick decides to get an omelette, and like a fool, so did I. 40 minutes we wait for this fucking omelette, and it’s fucking dry!”
“The omelette wasn’t very nice,” Alex said politely, and the interviewer laughed.
“Greg, I can sense your rage from here,” she said with a giggle.
Greg grimaced. “Yeah, every now and then I try to do things his way, to throw him a bone. And every time, it ends up being shit.”
She laughed again. “Which is probably why you’re the Taskmaster.”
Alex nodded emphatically as Greg said firmly, “Without a fucking doubt.”
The interviewer shook her head, grinning. “Well, thank you both so much for your time,” she said, and Greg let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. “I can’t wait to see the rest of the season.”
“You’re welcome,” Greg told her as Alex gave her a tight smile and said, “We can’t wait to hear what you think of it!”
The Zoom meeting ended and Greg stood automatically, needing to get out of that room, from where he’d just sat for an hour with his arm pressed against Alex.
He almost made it to the door before Alex said, his voice quiet but enough to root Greg to the floor, “Thank you.”
Greg, swallowed, hard. “Yeah,” he said, a little roughly, and reached for the door handle, his hand closing around the cold metal without pulling it open. “I lied, before.”
“I know,” Alex said shortly. “I’m aware that we are actually friends and that you don’t actually think I’m that unfunny—”
“Not about that.”
Greg glanced back at Alex, whose brow was furrowed with a frown. “Then what?”
“Earlier today,” Greg told him. “When I said that you make it easy for me to hate you.”
Alex went very still, a thousand expressions flickering across his face so quickly that Greg couldn’t track them before he finally managed something carefully neutral.
Something safe.
“Oh?” he said, with just the hint of a question.
“You don’t,” Greg told him, because he had never been one to take the safe option. Not if he had any choice in the matter.
Alex jerked a wooden nod. “I—”
But Greg didn’t let him finish. “I just wish that you did.”
Then he was gone, making it almost all the way down the corridor before pressing his palms against his trousers to stop his hands from shaking.
And resolutely not turning back to Alex, no matter how much he might want to.