Work Text:
“No,” Greg said firmly.
“Please, Greg?” Iain Stirling said, his eyes wide and pleading behind his glasses. “Come on, it’s an hour at most—”
Greg gave him a stern look. “It’s not the time commitment,” he said, hoisting his bag further up his shoulder to stop it from slipping down. “It’s the fact that I don’t exactly think I’m what the audience wants to see.”
Iain shook his head. “That’s exactly the point,” he said eagerly. “It’s all comedians and the such, it’s good fun. Your segment’s easy and I won’t even make you take your shirt off if you don’t want.”
Even though Greg maintained his glower, he could feel his resolve slipping, just slightly. “You do realise I’ve never watched a single episode of Love Island , yeah?” he said with a sigh.
Iain grinned. “Don’t worry, mate, you’re not missing much.”
“No, but it might give me some idea for what I’d be in for,” Greg pointed out. “And whether I’m actually willing to risk my professional reputation for it.”
“It’s hardly your professional reputation at stake,” Iain scoffed. “Besides, it’s for charity.”
He said it like that should be reason enough, which Greg supposed under ordinary circumstances, it probably would be. But he’d already done his bit for this particular charity telethon, a new, joint effort between Channel 4 and ITV to try to compete with Comic Relief (because if there was one area where competition was definitely appropriate, it was fucking charity), and recorded a number of promos as the Taskmaster to boot. Now, he just wanted to go home, put his feet up, maybe turn in to some of the later acts in the telethon. Alex and his band were going to be in Dictionary Corner for a special edition of 8 out of 10 Cats does Countdown, not that he cared, of course, but just something to put on in the background, wasn’t it.
He realised a moment too late that Iain was looking at him expectantly, and he sighed again. “I haven’t got anything to wear,” he said, gesturing down at his usual hoodie and jeans combo.
“We’ll get you sorted,” Iain said, clearly sensing victory was within grasp. “Besides, you’ve lost all that weight, don’t you want to show it off?”
When in doubt, play to his vanity, which was how Greg found himself in a too small dressing room donning exceptionally too small swimming trunks. Christ, they made the pair he’d swiped from Ed Gamble feel loose in comparison.
A knock sounded on the door, and someone from production poked her head in before even giving him a chance to respond. “You about ready?” she asked.
“Ready to murder Iain Stirling with my bare hands,” he said, though to be fair he was too busy at the moment using said hands to try to block his crotch from sight.
She just laughed. “Right, we just need to get you mic’d up, and then you’re good to go,” she told him, checking something off on her clipboard. “Did Iain tell you what your segment involves?”
Greg shook his head. “No, probably because he knew I wouldn’t agree to it if he did.”
“Well, you’re with three other comedians,” she said, beckoning for him to lean down so she could slip what he assumed was the microphone over his head, though it looked more like a weird necklace than a microphone, and he almost pointed out that she could just clip a mic to his shirt before thinking better of it.
He didn’t like when people told him how to do his job, after all.
“Each of you will be blindfolded and wearing ear protectors,” she continued, glancing own at her clipboard. “And then you’ll all get a kiss from each other’s partners and have to rank the kisses out of 10.”
“Sorry, what?” Greg said, certain he must have misheard. Or misunderstood. Or perhaps blacked out from lack of circulation to his genitals and was now having a very vivid dream while unconscious.
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed as if confused by his reaction, before her expression evened out. “Right, of course, sorry, you haven’t got a partner, I forgot.”
And now Greg’s love life was being mocked. There was hell and then there was whatever the fuck this was.
“So you’ll be partnered with the ‘bombshell’ for the scene, who will of course be a surprise,” she finished, as if that had even remotely been Greg’s concern. As opposed to the whole, kissing someone else’s partner bit.
“Right,” Greg said, for lack of literally anything else to say. “Listen, I think there’s been a misunderstanding, and if I could just—”
“I’ve got to get you to set,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “Do you want to leave your t-shirt here?”
Greg glanced down at himself. His head was starting to hurt. “Iain told me I could wear my shirt.”
She clucked her tongue impatiently. “And that’s why the talent doesn’t get to make any production decisions,” she sighed. “Come on, we’ll deal with it on set.”
Despite himself, and especially despite the fact that Greg was about thirty seconds away from bolting because fuck charity , nothing was worth this, he numbly followed her to the set, which appeared to be an elaborate fake beach on one of Pinewood’s sound stages. And there waiting for him, and, thankfully, in a comforting sort of way, looking almost as out of sorts as he did, was Ed Gamble, David Mitchell, and Elis James.
“Greg!” Ed said immediately, in that golden retriever way of his that usually Greg appreciated. Emphasis on usually. “How’d you get roped into this, mate?”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” Greg said gloomily, eyeing the makeup lady holding a pallet of what he assumed was bronzer. “And I’m going to fucking throttle Iain Stirling when I get my hands on him.”
Elis winced as he bent his knees slightly, his hands strategically placed in front of his crotch. “Get in line,” he murmured.
Greg glanced at David, genuinely surprised to see him there, even more surprised to see him in a mostly-unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and shorts, which was as close to undressed as Greg had ever seen. “All right, David?”
“Depends highly on how you’d define ‘all right’,” David told him. “When Victoria told me we’d be doing something for the telethon, this was not what I had in mind.”
The makeup lady made a hopeful movement toward Greg, who quickly put David between himself and her. “Yeah, I can’t imagine Victoria going in for something like this,” he said, frowning down at David. “Especially since I’m led to believe this is some kind of kissing challenge.”
“To be fair, I think she had some encouragement,” Elis put in. “At least, if Isy is to be believed.”
Ed nodded. “Yeah, I think they’ve got a group text or something, and the idea was floated there.”
Greg frowned. “Who’s got a group text?”
“All the comedians’ partners.”
David pulled a face. “What, all of them?” he asked, sceptical.
“Maybe not all,” Elis said, “but some of them, perhaps? It’s too big a coincidence for them to all separately have agreed to this otherwise.”
Ed nodded. “Yeah, I mean, Charlie’d probably do it in a heartbeat, and I imagine Isy took a little bit of persuading, but Victoria…”
“I can certainly see why you’d think it would take a bit of cajoling,” David said, “but she was quite keen on it, actually.”
“Really?”
David winced. “Well, she was amenable, at least,” he amended, “which for her—”
The makeup lady finally managed to skirt around the group and get within arm’s reach of Greg, who followed her unhappily to a stool, slumping down so she could attempt her worst with correcting his pallor.
Ed and Elis wandered after them, both ignoring David, who was still chatting to himself, mostly. “So, Greg, what woman have they roped into playing your partner?” Elis asked.
“They wouldn’t tell me,” Greg said gloomily, not even bothering to argue when the makeup lady wrestled him out of his t-shirt. “Which doesn’t bode spectacularly well, especially since I’m a last minute replacement.”
“For who?” Ed asked, frowning.
“Mel Giedroyc, I think,” David supplied, having finally rejoined the conversation.
“How come he gets to keep his shirt on?” Greg asked the makeup lady, who barely spared a glance in David’s direction.
“Because,” she said simply. “Now hold still.”
Greg sighed, tuning back into the conversation. “Shame,” Ed was saying, “I’d’ve liked to snog Mel’s husband.”
“Would you?” Elis asked, laughing.
Ed considered it. “Well, I’d’ve liked to been able to say I did, anyway.”
“Fair play.”
Unfortunately, with Greg’s face now a solid three shades darker than the vast rest of him, the director called for places, which meant Greg’s opportunity to get out of this was rapidly slipping away. Thankfully, Iain appeared on set just as they were all being shown to their spots, and Greg grabbed his arm, yanking him aside. “You didn’t mention anything about kissing,” he hissed. “Nor this swimming costume, for that matter.”
Iain had the audacity to grin. “It’s Love Island!” he said, as if that was a remotely helpful explanation or excuse. “Now come on, we don’t want to hold up the recording.”
“Oh, heaven fucking forbid,” Greg huffed as the production crew member shuffled him back into place, stood shoulder to shoulder with the other three, all rather inexplicably lined up behind a velvet rope.
“Iain will introduce you, then it’s blindfolds and ear protectors on,” the director told them. “When it’s your turn to kiss, the person you’re kissing will tap you on the arm before kissing you. Once they’re done kissing you, you’ll say aloud what your initial thoughts and ranking are. Questions?”
Greg immediately raised his hand. The director glanced at him and back down at the paper in front of him. “Right, we’re on in two,” he said. “Quiet on set, everyone.”
Greg lowered his hand. “Fucking Christ—”
But before he could properly complain, the director was counting them in, and from then on, Greg had to be a professional.
An almost-naked professional who was actually about to get to kiss three, potentially four attractive women, which honestly wasn’t a bad day at work, all things considered. He didn’t usually go in for this sort of thing, knowing far too well what the visual looked like, but it would help that the women would be the ones kissing him rather than the other way round. He’d definitely done stupider things on telly and he imagined if anyone was truly uncomfortable, production would let them tap out. After all, it’d be just as good of a gag for them to refuse as for them to go through with it.
Besides, he really was quite keen to show off the weight loss. Give the Mumsnet crowd something to talk about.
He was still going to kill Iain, though.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Iain said as the introduction music faded, “we’re back! All new sexy singles on a quest to find—” He broke off with a grin. “Well, sexy’s in the eye of the beholder, and only one of these men is single. But what we have got is four very funny men, about to participate in Love Island’s Kissing Booth challenge, where our islanders snog their various partners blindfolded. Or as Greg calls it, Friday night at the Taskmaster house.”
“Fuck off, Iain,” Greg said cheerfully.
Iain’s grin widened. “And the first half of our Islanders for this charity challenge are: David Mitchell! Ed Gamble! Elis James! And Greg Davies!”
Each man waved awkwardly at the camera when it was their turn, and Greg found himself longing for a studio audience to cheer for them. Still, at least the next part was the easy bit. The four comedians donned their blindfolds and ear protectors as Iain finished explaining the game for the cameras before, assumedly, introducing their partners, and Greg had the stray thought that he’d prefer if Alex were here to help him like if he were a contestant on Taskmaster.
Then he slipped the blindfold over his eyes and the world went black.
As far as sensory deprivation went, it wasn’t the most complete Greg had ever experienced, which was just as well. He could see a little tiny slip of light at his far periphery, and hear muffled sound through the ear protectors. Not quite enough to make anything out, but enough that he didn’t completely jump out of his skin when the first person tapped his arm.
Then whomever it was tugged him down into a weird and extremely chaste kiss, their lips barely touching his before they pulled away. He screwed his face up. “Victoria?” he guessed. “Whoever it was didn’t want to kiss me, which, fair play I guess. Er, 7 out of 10?”
An overly generous rating, but Greg wasn’t about to risk the wrath of Victoria Coren Mitchell.
The next kiss was firmer, but almost a little wet, like the person had licked their lips immediately beforehand, and Greg pulled a face. “A bit, er, wet for me,” he said, certain he was blushing crimson. “Sorry to whomever it was. 6 out of 10.”
The third kiss was stranger still, mostly because of where it came from – too tall to be any of the women he was expecting. Of course, it could be from the mystery ‘bombshell’, but the kiss was more of a swift peck than anything, and frankly, Greg expected more from some so-called bombshell. “7 out of 10?” he said, certain he sounded as confused as he felt saying it. “And not a single clue who that was.”
Following the third kiss, there was a longer than expected wait, and Greg shifted uncomfortably. This time, he did jump when someone touched his arm, just slightly, and the hand on his arm lingered, clearly having felt his flinch. After a brief moment, Greg nodded, and the hand moved from his arm to the back of his neck, tugging him down to meet their lips.
And this– this was what Greg had been expecting from a Love Island bombshell kiss. The person’s lips parted against his, an invitation for Greg to turn it open-mouthed and heady.
An invitation that Greg readily accepted, because he knew these lips, knew the long fingers that dug into his hip through the thin fabric of his swimming trunks, knew the feeling of the man’s beard under his hand as he cupped his cheek. Knew the way the man sighed against him, knew the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, knew the way he matched Greg’s every movement.
And an instant later knew why the preceding kisses had felt as weird as they had.
“So by partners,” he said, pulling away far enough to remove his ear protectors and blindfold, “I take it to mean you were referring to comedy partners.”
Sure enough, he was greeted by the sight of Lee Mack, John Robins and James Acaster falling over each other with laughter, having clearly taken the places of Victoria, Isy and Charlie respectively.
And, far more importantly, grinning up at him was Alex fucking Horne, his face pink and his smile blinding. “Hi,” he said, and despite everything, Greg grinned down at him.
“Hey,” he returned. “How’d you get roped into this?”
Alex shrugged. “Same way you did, I expect.”
“Iain’s a fucking prick.”
Alex laughed and Iain coughed pointedly. “You are still mic’d,” he said sourly, before turning back to the cameras. “Yes, much to our islanders' surprise, their partners are not their romantic or life partners, but rather their comedy partners! Because what’s a little homoerotic kissing for charity?”
“Can I change my scores?” David asked as soon as he saw Lee after taking off his own blindfold, and Iain grinned.
“No, unfortunately, we have to take your first score for Lee, which was a rousing 10 out of 10.”
David sighed and Iain turned back to the camera to close the segment out. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like production needed them for that bit, as they quickly ushered the comedians off-stage while Iain was still wrapping up their scores and throwing to the next segment.
Greg paused on his way out, bending down to grab his t-shirt from where the makeup lady had tossed it, and Alex lingered behind for him, his face still pleasantly, deliciously pink. “So Iain convinced you, too,” Greg said when they started walking together again, several paces behind everyone else.
Alex glanced up at him. “It didn’t take much convincing, but yes.”
“No?” Greg said, amused. “You were that eager to snog a bunch of men on telly, since I assume he told you the entire plan?”
Alex just shrugged. “Not my first time snogging men on telly,” he pointed out. “Won’t be the last, either, chances are.” He hesitated before knocking his shoulder against Greg’s. “Besides, I don’t usually get to kiss you in public. Not like that, at least. I wasn’t going to pass the opportunity up.”
Greg ducked his head, his answering grin soft. After a moment, he glanced back at Alex. “Knowing you, you could come up with some excuse to kiss me like that on telly if you really wanted to.”
“Mm,” Alex said. “You’d probably take a bit more convincing, though.”
Greg laughed lightly. “Fair enough.”
Alex looked up at him again. “Are you headed home now?”
Greg glanced down at his watch. “I was planning on it,” he said, pulling a face. “Of course, I was planning on it forty-five minutes ago as well, and you see how that worked out for me.”
“I think it worked out quite well,” Alex said in that obsequious kind of way that made Greg roll his eyes affectionately. “Only, if, er, you weren’t doing anything…”
He trailed off and Greg nodded slowly. “What time do you need to be on set for Cats Does Countdown?”
“I’ve got some time,” Alex said, clearly aiming for casual.
Greg grinned, his plans for the next half hour at least solidified. “Then I suppose I’m in no rush to get home.”
Alex’s grin matched his. “Good,” he said. He paused before adding, significantly less casually than before, “You know, you didn’t rank my kiss.”
“Didn’t I?” Greg said, his grin sharpening into a smirk. Alex shook his head and Greg put an arm around his shoulder, the move casual, familiar. “Well, in that case,” he said, and he turned his head to not quite kiss the top of Alex’s, his lips just brushing against his hair as he murmured, for Alex alone to hear, “10 out of 10.”