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Chris can hear the crowd gathered outside of the bar even over the din of the cast and the crew and all the extras setting up yet another shot. It’s not exactly screaming - not yet - but it’s the constant hum of hundreds of people (of girls, let’s be honest) murmuring and talking and whispering excitedly. He appreciates them – their enthusiasm – they’re the reason he gets to do any of this at all. He understands this, he’s eternally grateful for it, but still, there are times when he just wishes for the return of quiet.
The headache that’s been forming behind his left eye all day flares sharply and Chris rubs ineffectually at his forehead. It’s mostly stress, he knows this, but the smoky atmosphere of the bar isn’t helping at all, and neither are the loud music and flashing lights. At least the last two things have stopped for the time being, but the herbal-tinged smoke lingers, creeping along the sticky floorboards and ghosting across the tacky walls, and invades his senses.
He wants to push on his eyeball, as though he could force some of the pressure back, but the last time he did that his eye turned a little red and they’d had to shoot the scene from his other side. As it is, he can see the makeup people rolling their eyes at him and he knows he’s just messed up the carefully applied foundation and powder. Normally, he’d care and apologize, but right now he’s just too fucking tired.
“Hey, you look like shit.”
Chris has long gotten over Darren’s surprise appearances and he doesn’t even so much as twitch at the sudden interruption. He automatically waits for the slide of Darren’s hand down his back, solid and comforting, and tries not to be disappointed when he doesn’t get it. It’s not the time or place for that.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” Chris rolls his eyes, too fondly for his own good, and immediately regrets it.
The pain flares again, a bright burst of white-hot and Chris squints against it. He wants to go back to their trailer, wrap himself up in one of Darren’s stupid old hoodies that’s starting to smell too much like him and not enough like Darren, and go to sleep. But that would require going outside, past the wall of fans, and no fucking way in hell is that happening. The initial crescendo of screams would surely split his head open right down to the grey matter. Although maybe that would relieve some of the pressure.
“You ok?” Darren asks and he stands close enough to Chris to be heard without yelling. Chris is seated on one of the barstools, hunched over the bar with his elbows carefully avoiding a suspiciously sticky stain on the old, warped wood.
“Headache.” Chris mumbles, and he pushes his thumb into the notch of his left eyebrow. He’s also tired and hungry, and he’s pretty sure there’s a tag or a pin or something stuck in the collar of his shirt that keeps poking at his neck, but try as he might he can’t seem to find it. He knows his neck is getting red where he’s scratching at it and he’s waiting for the hair and makeup people to notice that too.
“So I should stop talking then.”
Chris glances over and Darren’s eyes are dark and warm, pupils wide in the dim lighting of the bar. Darren looks ridiculous in the collared, short-sleeved shirt that’s too tight around his biceps and a terrible color for his complexion. He’s got a bowtie on, of course he does, and only the fact that there are too many people around them with phones and Twitter accounts keeps Chris from reaching out and straightening the slightly crooked tie. A year and a half and the wardrobe department still hasn’t figured how to make him look a little more like a stylish teenager, and a lot less like a stunted man-child.
Actually, Darren is standing closer than he needs to be to be heard, but that’s par for the course with Darren. It’s not that Chris has a problem with the way Darren invades his, and everyone else’s, personal space – he doesn’t. It’s a strange kind of comfort to know that he’s going to be close by almost whenever Chris needs him. But he has a problem with the way Darren has to force himself from invading his space even further.
When they’re alone, which isn’t often enough, Darren is hands on his hips to move him out of the way when they’re in the kitchen reaching for the bottles of wine Chris keeps higher up than need be. Darren is toes shoved under his thigh when they’re on the couch watching a movie – or, really, when Darren is drooling onto the back of the couch while the end credits play and Chris is trying to work. Darren is shoulders bumping when they try to walk through a too-narrow doorway together and fingers catching in Chris’ beltloops for no reason at all. Darren is uncomplicated, unconscious touches and no reservations what so ever.
But they’re not alone. Not now and not hardly ever these days. But Darren has slid between two of the barstools and is leaning one elbow on the bar counter, body angled close and familiar to Chris’ and Chris can just barely smell the lighter, brighter scent of his cologne over the heavy drag of the smoke curling through the air.
“No, you don’t have to stop talking.” Chris blinks slowly at the knowing smile that just barely twitches at the corner of Darren’s mouth.
If he’s honest with himself, and he rarely is, Chris finds the lower timbre of Darren’s voice to be ludicrously soothing. The voice he uses for Blaine, or for interviews, isn’t the voice he uses with Chris, and it provides a space between the personas that Chris appreciates. Blaine isn’t his Darren, and neither is the guy who’s been doing so much more press than ever. He wears Darren’s skin and his clothes, but he’s not Darren. Chris doesn’t have to squint to see the difference – it’s there, plain as anything, in the tightness of his mouth and the flatness behind his eyes. And it’s there in the higher, slightly strained pitch of his voice when he talks about Glee and his movie and all the things he wants but doesn’t need.
But when he’s with Chris or Joey or any of his real friends or family, his voice deepens and relaxes. When he’s just with Chris, his voice takes on an easy, almost gruff resonance that settles, warm and comforting, in Chris’ chest in a way that there isn’t yet time to think about.
“Cory and I are going to go out there,” Darren says, and he tips his head toward the door of the bar. “Calm the masses.”
“Oh, please, no.” Chris just barely resists the urge to drag his fingers through his hair. “I can’t right now.” The thought of plastering on a ragged, smiling face and braving the throng of fans waiting for just a peek of them makes his stomach roll and his headache flare.
“No, Chris.” Darren leans in a little closer and Chris can see the shadow of his stubble and the flecks of deeper color in his eyes. “Cory and I are going to brave it. You stay here.” Darren taps one of the legs of Chris’ stool with his foot.
“And here,” Darren digs into his pocket and pulls out two little pills that Chris recognizes. Somehow Darren knew, and Chris’ chest aches with everything that is and isn’t. “I had to shake a PA down for these.”
“You know,” Chris says. “We’re kind of past the point where you need to roofie me.”
“Fuck you, Colfer. Just swallow them.”
That’s what she said, Chris thinks, and he can tell by the amused twinkle in Darren’s eyes that he’s thinking it too. Sometimes Chris wonders what they would have been if they’d met sooner – what indecisions they could have avoided and revisions they could have made.
The fact that Darren is volunteering to go out and brave the throng of fans – even though he too is so fucking exhausted he can barely walk straight – so Chris doesn’t have to makes Chris’ stomach wriggle. Darren doesn’t have to do any of the things he does for him. He doesn’t have to film a few grainy minutes of a musical that Chris couldn’t see for himself; he doesn’t have to go begging for Advil from a nervous PA to help ease Chris’ growing headache; and he certainly doesn’t have to spend a few precious minutes of downtime between scenes signing autographs and taking pictures with fans when he could be stealing sleep.
“I’ll be back, ok?” Darren’s expression shifts minutely, from teasing to concerned in the barest flash, and Chris just nods. It’s impossible to say what he means and he doesn’t dare try. Not then.
Darren pulls away from the bar counter and pats Chris’ shoulder. His hand finds the dip above Chris’ collarbone and his fingers squeeze lightly, discretely. Chris can feel the apology of the touch through his layers.
The noise of the crowd outside swells to the painful, expected crescendo when Darren and Cory step outside and Chris’s head throbs dully, but the sound gets muted and muffled when the heavy door closes behind them.
Chris closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath that still tastes too much of smoke and obligations and not enough of the subtle spice of Darren’s skin.
He’s starting to forget what they’re waiting for, and dares to wonder if it’s worth it, after all.