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Graydon watches Riley lean over the sink, the doorjamb digging into his shoulder. He never feels taller than when he’s in a small room with Riley—Graydon always sort of feels like he’s too big for spaces, but especially with Riley. Low doorframes and spilling out all lanky in seats built for short legs or crowding around a small person like Ben—like all the negative space is being swallowed up. They’re two busy, loud, hyperpop, electronic songs being blasted at the same time in an enclosed and echoey space, that’s how it feels to be in a small room with Riley John Savage.
“You clean up nice,” says Graydon because he’s obsessively thinking and he wants to stop. (He’s not thinking about Riley’s hand in the top of his hoodie or Riley’s cheek against his or anything about his eyes because that would be weird. That was normal GraydonandRiley stuff, so, whatever.)
Riley’s eyes meet his in the mirror and Graydon suddenly realises that he doesn’t really need to be here any more because the stupid TikTok ad is over. “Really?” says Riley, high-pitched and genuine like nobody has ever paid him a compliment.
“Yeah, dude,” says Graydon. He should now jerk a thumb over his shoulder and mumble something like I’m just gonna like dads do before they head out to have a shit, he should run off and hide somewhere, but Riley is smiling very warmly at him in the bathroom mirror and Graydon feels sweaty and weird and too tall and like he’s going to combust if he even tries to move. “Yeah.”
“Cool,” says Riley, endearingly sincere, “thanks, dude.” His small and slender hands on the edge of the porcelain white of the sink look tanned, Graydon doesn’t know why he notices. “I think filming went okay, right?” He reaches for one of the towels.
“Yeah.” He wonders if he looks as in love in the footage as he feels and vows to never watch it or read the comments; ignorance is bliss, as they say. “Some funny stuff in there.”
Riley grins, turns around. “Yeah, you were great.”
He reaches out to pat Riley on the shoulder. It feels weirdly like they haven’t touched in ages, like Graydon has been missing him for the past five minutes with an intensity of decades. “Thanks, man.” Riley is still looking at him warmly, it doesn’t seem like a word with enough gravity for the way Riley looks at him sometimes, half-hidden by his hat and long, dark eyelashes, just winking out at him from behind that, but no less bright and warm. Like how the sun can still blind you during an eclipse.
“You going to let me out?” asks Riley, looking at Graydon like he can feel the itchy-tight feeling of their hyperpop enclosed tension.
He squeezes his folded arms tight around his ribs, still doesn’t want to move, even with Riley looking at him like he’s being a complete weirdo.
“Oh, okay, what is this?” says Riley, smiling the way he does when he’s trying to stay in character with his eyes and lips shiny. “You’re going to keep me in here forever making shaving ads?”
“Maybe,” says Graydon, non-committally. “I don’t know, Ri, you’re pretty good at this TikTok advertising shit, I think it’s a career change you should consider.”
“That I should consider, or that you’re making me “consider” at “gun-point”?”
He finds himself snorting, even though it’s the sort of lame bit that Riley would probably spend hours agonising over keeping or shedding in his editing room frenzy. “You ever consider going into comedy?” he asks, swaying away from the doorjamb to let Riley past and follow him towards the kitchen.
“What’s all this career talk?” says Riley, distracted poking at his phone. (Graydon catches sight of the advert, slow-mo of Riley tugging Graydon into sight by his collar as Riley keys through it frame-by-frame with his thumb. He does look as in love as he feels. He wonders if anyone else can tell, if Riley can.) “Thinking about going into something different yourself?” Half a joke, half something genuine.
“Nah,” says Graydon, “it’s co-host or, like, coal mine, for me. I don’t think I’m cut out for anything else.”
“You’re a smart guy.”
Graydon shrugs, flexes his fingers because he can still feel the ghost of Riley’s smooth skin against the knuckles. Riley’s the smart one, anyway. “Sure, I don’t know. As long as you want me, man.”
“Well, I do want you,” he says, like that’s in any way a normal thing to say. Graydon wishes he had the ability to drop-dead at any moment, just to stop feeling the way he does about Riley. “As my co-host,” he clarifies and Graydon can see him going endearingly pink under the cover of his hair.
He stands by the kitchen door and watches Riley poke at the video and try to make coffee at the same time, feeling the buzz of their negative space being pulled taut. He wishes they were in a bigger room, like a ballroom or a football stadium. He also feels like he wants to be wrapped around Riley and so close they’re impossible to untangle, the subconscious part of him that always puts his arm over the back of Riley’s chair and makes “bits” out of tucking Riley’s hair behind his ear because of a ravenous need to touch.
And because he can. Because he can touch, because Riley and Graydon do, all the fucking time, Graydon pushes away from the door and wraps an arm around his shoulders to look down at the ad he promised himself he wouldn’t look at and watch for the minute details of his own eyes lingering on Riley’s face.
Riley just leans into him, tossing his hat onto the kitchen island and tapping his fingers on Graydon’s arm and asking him what he thinks about the lighting, like it even matters.
He’ll get over it at some point, he’s sure. He’ll work out a way to turn his hyperpop down and it will feel less like they’re overcrowded even when it’s just them in a room, or they’ll plug up all the negative space with small people (like Ben or Grant or anyone who fits) so they can’t fill it all up with their static. But right now—right now— it’s just Riley and Graydon and the places they’re touching and figuring out the next time he can make Riley laugh.
That’s okay.
Graydon can work with that.