Work Text:
Les Étoiles / Starstruck
The patio door slid open and out walked the silhouette of a gentleman, carrying something in his hand. As he approached she saw it was a glass - a tumbler.
"Forgive the intrusion."
"It’s fine, is the birthday girl having her cake moment?"
"Not yet. I think she's waiting until midnight for it to be official."
"But wasn't she born on the East Coast?"
"I think it's the principle. Liz asked me to bring you this, though."
"What is it?" she asked as he handed it over.
"A Kahlua and creme."
"Made her way or mine?"
"She didn't specify."
"Hmmm. She didn't make you a drink?"
"I'm sober."
"Ah. Very good."
She placed the glass on the nearby table.
"You don't need to skip drinking it on my account. I'm fine with other people having a drink in my presence. Or I can go back inside..."
"No no. You're welcome to join me for fresh air. I was just thinking you might not like to taste it on me later if we kiss. I'm guessing Lizzie sent you out with a drink because she believes you're single and knows you're intelligent and genuine enough to be my type."
He blushed. "She does know I broke up with someone a few months ago."
"Hmmm. And what, pray tell, did she tell you about me?"
"Very little. Only that you were writing on the terrace and your pen might benefit from a drink."
"Good. Then she won't have biased you too much."
He gestured to the journal in her hand. "Is the writing shareable?"
"This one is - simple and short but good enough for a night like this."
He sat next to her on the bench as she read it aloud.
"The stars spilled around the moon, soliciting the reflection of its light, even as they created their own and shunned the sun, though they were present both day and night. Les étoiles, la luna, le soleil."
"Ah. And she speaks French."
"I'm a bit bi...lingual, yes."
"I see what you mean about our having things in common." His eyes glimmered. "May I see?" he requested, reaching for the book.
"Fine, but like a smartphone, don't swipe left."
"I promise."
She handed it over. He eyeballed the writing and the words in the dim light.
"Mind if I make some lines myself?" he asked, reaching for her pen also.
"Sure, why not." She handed it over. "Are you planning to edit or amend me?"
"Not at all."
He flipped a page to the right and turned the journal horizontally, scribbling himself.
"Ah. You mean to give me a run for my money."
"Just seeing how rusty I am. While I'm working you can take as many sips as you like."
She feigned a pout at the implication until he added, without looking up from his work -
"It won't bother me to taste it on your lips later. I think Lizzie made it her way. Lots of creme."
She smirked and reached for the glass to take its pleasure.
He grinned and inspected his page as the pen moved deftly and carefully across the paper. She had almost drained the drink to the ice by the time he handed it back.
"Wow. What is this?"
"A bit of a sketch, a bit of a poem. Visual poetry."
"But you've drawn the words in my hair, I'm not quite sure I can read the pen strokes."
He recited, "She reflected the moon, she hid the sun, la belle de la nuit."
She nodded, sufficiently impressed.
"You make me sound very broody."
"Aren't you? Sitting in the moonlight alone while the party is inside?"
"You want me to go inside where all the noise and fake 'how do you do's are going on?"
"I didn't say that."
"Nor do I think you meant it. You've chosen your escape too."
"Or maybe I want to get to know you."
She extended a hand to shake and began, "Je m'appelle - "
But without thinking he interrupted with " - you look familiar."
She withdrew her hand.
"Perhaps you've met me at another of Liz's parties." She absentmindedly traced his drawing with her finger, looking away from him.
"No. I'm quite sure I'd remember that and though she's invited me many times, this is the first time I've bothered to show."
She smirked and looked him over then. "I just have one of those faces. Girl next door type. Probably remind you of someone else." She glanced back at his drawing again. "You forgot to sign and date this. I'll need proof it was you when your art is famous."
He grows a Cheshire grin. Holding her gaze, he signed and dated it, then handed it back to her closed. She took it, but didn't look at it.
"What are your hobbies?" she inquired.
"You don't want to ask me what I do for a living?"
"Everyone asks that at parties, boring as hell. I want to know what you're fixated on."
"My new spice garden. I'm growing rosemary, thyme, and lavender to start."
"You are not."
"I am."
"Are you any good at it?"
"They're not dead yet. Might be big enough to be edible in a month or so. I'll have to double-check with ChatGPT. You can upload pictures to it, you know. What about you?"
"No spice garden yet, but you're making me envious talking about yours. Maybe I'll start one. In the meantime, I plant my words here." She shook the journal.
"Any other talents?"
She hesitated.
"I'm a decent ice skater. I didn't quite make it to freestyle while I was formally training, but I did qualify to compete."
"Singles or pairs?"
"Singles." She studied her hands. "I broke up with someone too, if you're wondering. He moved back to Toronto for work recently. We knew it was coming, just a little sooner than we wanted. But ultimately it's for the best."
"Mine too. We knew it wouldn't last, but we still wanted to be kind to each other."
"Best way to be. Are you still in touch?"
"He gives me updates. But we're also sort of giving each other breathing room. He knows I should move on."
"Good of him. I think I would have trouble letting you go." She caught herself then. "Hypothetically. You seem lovely."
"I was with the woman I dated before him a bit longer. We've thankfully stayed in touch too. She's a writer herself now. East Coast."
"It reclaims some of the best of them. The last woman I was with is back on that coast too."
"Birds of a feather. But you've managed to stay here."
"You know how it goes. Work keeps me here."
"How long for you?"
"So far an eighteen-year sentence. You?"
"Twelve, but I'm back and forth to New York a fair amount."
She nodded. "Which one do you prefer?"
"An apple and orange - impossible to really compare. I like the landscapes here, the architecture there. I like the theatre in Chicago. Each city is its own vibe."
"I can see that. I like the spaces and margin here, musicals in the Windy City, the dynamics and music there in New York."
"The music." He says, studying her face.
"But I digress. What was a childhood fixation you had?"
"Pet rocks."
"With names?"
"Oddly no. But I loved Tiger's Eye."
"All the lines and ripples."
"Exactly. The detail and glimmer."
"That tracks. You seem detail-oriented."
"I can be," he said flirtatiously.
"I'm trying to decide whether to kiss you now or later."
"Why not both?" he admonished. "If we're any good at it we may want to do it more than once."
"I like the way you think."
She leaned closer to him.
Just then, the blinds at the patio door cinched shut from the inside, but not before they both saw a very pleased Lizzie observing when they turned to see what caused the commotion.
"I think we may have just given her exactly what she wanted for her birthday."
"Evidence that she's right?"
"Something like that."
He leaned closer.
She started to meet him halfway but paused and interjected.
"But what if it's just a rebound? For either one of us?"
"Like Phil Collins sings, that's a chance I'll have to take."
"Against All Odds."
She chewed on her thumbnail a moment as she considered, before she ran her thumb along the edge of his neatly trimmed beard and tilted his face closer to hers, closing the distance to set her lips against his. Gently at first, then open-mouthed and breathing him in.
He laid a hand on her shoulder and welcomed her advance, before pausing for a breath and letting slip, "Wow, Gwen."
She recoiled. "You know my name. But you said Lizzie didn't tell you about me."
"She didn't. You did."
"I never said my name."
"You said you liked the music in New York. And then I realized. Sorry, maybe I should have said something as soon as I recognized you. But in all your album covers and publicity pics I've seen your hair is down. It didn't click right away."
She laughed.
"What?" he asked, wary of what she'd say next.
"There's just always been something funny to me about how straight and bi guys are so 'Clark Kent in Glasses' about a girl with her hair up. Like we look so different and unrecognizable."
"Which I'd wager is exactly one of the reasons you wear your hair up when you're not behind a piano, so you don't have to be visible and 'on'."
"That and blowing it out takes ages when your hair is as long as mine. A ponytail takes five seconds. My convenience is my disguise."
"Touché."
She leaned a little nearer.
"But you're one to talk, Raúl."
"Wait. Lizzie told YOU about me?"
"Nope. You did. When you said you often travel to New York for work. Then I realized why you look familiar to me too."
"So you didn't say anything either."
"Like me, I thought you'd enjoy some glorious time being unknown for a moment."
He smiled. "Well. If it's any consolation, it seems we'd both already decided we were going to be making out before we knew each other's true identities."
"Fair."
"So can you forgive that I'm that one guy from that one TV show? I mean, at least you didn't call me by my character name."
"I'm sure you get that a lot."
"More than I would have expected since I really don't like to play the celebrity card."
"I can sense that about you."
She tucked a loose strand of his hair behind his ear, and he leaned his cheek into her palm.
"God I love bi guys. You're so much more tender."
"And bi women are so much better about not expecting me to initiate all the time."
"I'm choosing to take that as a hint," she grinned, closing the distance to kiss him again, smiling all the wider when he "mmmed" into her open mouth.
She pulled back a moment and he pouted, complaining, "Where are you going?"
"Only to grab a blanket, the wind is picking up."
She rose and pivoted to a nearby basket. She grabbed an oversized outdoor camping blanket and draped it first around his shoulders, then her own as she sat back down and leaned against him like a picture-perfect postcard of a couple on holiday. He pulled it more snuggly around them both.
"You're right. That is better."
"I hope it's nowhere near midnight, because I don't think I'll want to move from this spot for a while."
He smoothed the hair on top of her head as he tucked it under his chin, drawing her into his embrace at the same time.
"Now that you know I know who you are, I don't know if I should ask you about the show to demonstrate that I appreciate your work, or if I should avoid it to ensure you know I care more about you as a full-fledged, real person."
"I like how plain-spoken you are, hearing you think out loud. Maybe I should start by asking you about your work."
"Ok."
"Why didn't you release an album for eight years?"
She opened her mouth to answer but no sound exited. She sighed instead.
"Sorry, maybe that was diving too deep too soon."
"Nah, it's fine. The TL;DR is the relationship I was in at the time. Then Covid came along and all I had was time, so I recorded three albums in one year to make up for it. My peers at the Recording Academy thought it was a fool's errand - promoting three albums in one award year. But one album was grieving, another was the dance and soul album I'd always wanted to record but didn't have the time and resources until then, and the third was letting go and moving forward. She and I split the next year."
"I'm sorry."
"It's ok. We both still cared and wanted to try our hardest to fix things. But sometimes fixing things means moving on."
"Sounds familiar."
"And you, why did you leave the show?"
"Well. I haven't, not really. They didn't kill me off. I was on for what, nine seasons?"
"Eleven or so, but who's counting?"
"I love the team there to bits. They'll always be family. I'll still guest star sometimes, maybe go back in some other way later. I just needed some time. Life doesn't stop when the camera is rolling."
"Amen to that."
"You act too, don't you?"
"I do, but I went union weeks before the strikes. Bad timing. I'd be OK30 if I restart now. I still might. But it would have to be something that made it worth returning. Grey's and NCIS have pinged me." She shrugged. "Lately they've been asking me if I want to play this wife or that murder victim. The really fun dayplayer work."
"I'd definitely recommend playing the murder victim."
"Yeah?"
"I mean it's a helluva lot of time in the makeup chair. But between the flashbacks, the killing, the crime scene, and the morgue ID, it can be a good week of work. Fittings alone can be a half day of pay."
"How long does it take to wash the fake blood out of your hair?"
"Hmm." He gestured toward her scrunchy. "Can I take it down?"
"Sure, it'll be warmer anyway."
He gently unwound it, trying not to get wisps stuck in the ponytail holder bends, then shook it loose about her shoulders.
"Wow. That's kind of exactly the way it looks on your dance album cover."
She swatted his shoulder. "Stop."
"Fine. I'll try to stop admiring you for a moment." He tugged it looser. "Hmmm, your hair is a lot longer now."
"What, you don't like it?"
He cleared his throat.
"No, not at all it's just... it would mean it would take longer to get the peppermint blood out of your hair if it was a head wound. We use the stage blood they use in Dracula stage productions mostly, unless it's a slaughter scene where there's just stuff all over the walls. That kind comes in bulkier buckets."
"What does that kind taste like?"
"You think I go around tasting buckets of fake blood on set?"
"I dunno, you tell me." she said, biting the edge of his lip playfully.
As long as she was right there he indulged her with another kiss.
"Honestly I don't know, I can smell the peppermint in the makeup blood, but I hear it also tastes like peppermint. But they've never really roughed up my character Jasper personally."
"What about you - do you play any instruments?"
"Does a kazoo count?"
She smirked.
"I played a little guitar. Just enough to woo someone if they're cute."
"Hmm, I see how it is," she teased.
"You play strings too, don't you?"
"I do, but mostly just to songwrite. I'm more connected on the piano. I hear what comes next more easily. It talks to me. The guitar breathes for me. I like to rest it against my sternum and let the bassier notes sing through my ribcage. I do like how mobile a guitar is - I can play on the beach or by the river. More often at someone else's house too if I want to play spontaneously."
"You should come over and play mine sometime. But be warned the strings will be dusty."
She didn't miss how he slid that invitation in there casually.
"I like them that way. Older strings have a certain smell to them. Not quite rust, but the scent of time, oils from your fingertips, and tightly wound metal. It's a quiet little symphony all its own."
He ran his fingers through her hair, across her scalp, slowly and somehow familiarly.
"Mmm. I like that."
"This is so weird."
"Why?"
"I dunno. I feel like I've known you for so much longer than however long we've been talking. And not just because I know your voice and your work. It's you yourself. Your personality, your tone. I'm probably not describing it very well."
"No, I think I know what you mean. There isn't that rough barrier of niceties or exhaustion of wondering if someone understands you correctly. I intuitively know when I talk you hear what I'm saying without supplanting your own meaning, overwriting my reality with yours. I mean, two things can be true at the same time. But you seem to trust that I mean what I say, and there's no... sort of cost for that admission. We're likeminded enough that we hear each other correctly maybe."
"Hmmm, yeah that's more or less how I'd describe it."
"What do you want?"
"What do I want? That seems like it could have a million answers. Which do you mean?"
"Just...where are you now? You said you were moving on - do you know yet what you're moving on to? At the basic level, how long are you in LA? What do you need from the people around you right now?"
"Damn. Ok. And I thought I was digging deep asking you about your quiet eight years."
"Only answer as much as you want to, of course."
"I want to," he assured her, tilting her chin up to kiss her again to underscore his words. "I guess I'm still figuring that out if I'm honest. The next season is shooting now. Scripts are circulating, but I don't know if they'll ask me back, or if so for how many episodes. And if they did ask, I'm not 100% sure I'm ready to head back to cold New York. Zabar's, yes. Back to set? I don't know. I mean, eventually yes. And after the strikes, I should just feel lucky to be asked to work again - so many of our peers still aren't fully back to work, as I'm sure you know. I haven't killed myself off in my mind either, it's all open-ended. But sometimes that flexibility becomes limbo. I'm so unaccustomed to stability and being still, sometimes I think I'd like to try it on and see if it fits. It probably won't and I'll have to tailor it to my size. And that - that process is one I'm unsure if I have the bandwidth to navigate right now. But I'll probably have to eventually, and if not now, when?"
She nodded with understanding.
"Sorry, that's probably not at all the answer you expected."
"In some ways it is. I kinda feel the same way. Career moves are so much more obvious early on. You say yes to almost everything. Even the toxic stuff that burns you out. But I'm hitting that age where I just don't have the stomach for bullshit anymore. And I don't think people fully appreciate how Covid and the strikes didn't just pause things - they changed them forever, and they're never going completely back to what they were."
"Boy. You can say that again. That's part of it too - an inability to decisively plan ahead when you can't predict the industry terrain in even a year's time against the backdrop of AI, decentralized content production, and monetization, let alone how smoothly the ship will sail in three to five years or more. And oh my god I must absolutely be boring you, talking shop and existentialism."
She snuggled into his side.
"Not at all. You're saying all my thoughts aloud. It's largely the same on the music side of the equation. Industry leaders have lost the plot, everyone is trying to innovate using the same lenses and frames from decades ago before streaming and it just won't work. You can't turn the clock backward, even with the current nostalgia for vinyl and cassettes. No matter how hard the hipsters try."
"I resemble that remark."
"Nah. You may read as slightly hipster on camera, but I see who you really are. You're an old soul with a fresh heart. You're too wise for the nonsense. You're smart enough to play along when you should, but break free when you must and need to. At least that's what I see from here, and I'm close enough to you now to have a pretty clear view."
"You're a breath of fresh air. I think I could use someone like you in my life, someone who doesn't judge my hesitation."
"Because it's not hesitation. It's deliberation. It's taking the time you need to make the decision that makes sense for you, not one-size-fits-all or outdated industry speak that no longer holds water. Nothing was ever guaranteed, but it's even less certain now. And that can be a blessing more than a curse, but we have to look it squarely in the eye without the interference of pesky people who have no idea what they're talking about because the old norms are out the window. You deserve the autonomy to set your own course."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"So you've been to Chicago, it sounds?"
"I used to live about 90 miles outside in Rockford during my broadcasting days."
"Did you make it into the city much?"
"I did when I could. Saw Ragtime for the first time there."
"At the Ford?"
"Yes, I think it was."
"I was there then. I attended that too."
"Whattayaknow, we could have met years ago."
"Wasn't the right time, I guess. I was in some musicals there at the time."
She tilted away from him a bit to look him in the eye. "I thought you said you weren't very musical."
"Nooo, you asked what instruments I play. I play a little piano too, but it's hard to play and sing at the same time."
"Tell me about it."
"I was even nominated for a Tony. More than once."
"What!? How did I not know you're also a musician?"
"You don't seem the type to read celebrity gossip mags."
"That's a fair assessment. Though I do try to read Broadway World from time to time, if only to read my own album reviews and articles it recommends. Well, well done you, on your way to an EGOT."
"Only nominated. Haven't won yet."
"Well, you have to get the nom to win, so you're halfway there."
"Eh, I'm not really one for popularity contests. I'm more about the artistry and the work. The moments."
"I completely understand that. But when you have your E, O, and T, let me know and we can collab to get you that G if we have to."
"If we have to. Now you're just looking for an excuse to spend time with me."
"What if I am?" She kissed him again and leaned into him more, slipping her arm around his waist to pull him more tightly against her.
He leaned his head back against the edge of the bench's arm rest.
"You know, just about the time you and I get really entangled, Lizzie's going to come out here and ask us to come back inside to sing her happy birthday."
"Oh ok, well I'll stop then - " she makes as if she's going to get up.
He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her back on top of him, enjoying all the little ways gravity brought her closer than she was before.
"I definitely didn't say stop."
She rewarded him with a kiss for his effort. "But you didn't say, 'Please keep going, Gwen.'"
"Oh, is that what you need to hear?"
"Mmmhmm."
He locked his fingers together behind her back, and leaned his mouth warmly next to her ear to whisper in a sultry tone, "Please, keep going, Gwen."
And then she melted.
"Well, I don't know how they haven't given you the Tony yet with a buttery voice like that. But I haven't heard you sing."
"Oh, you wanna hear me sing?" he said against her neck.
"Yesss."
"But it's not your birthday."
"Well just think of all the birthdays you missed."
In the most ridiculous Sinatra-esque voice he could muster, he do'bee'do-ed a whimsical "Happy Birthdayyyy, to youuuu" over and over again that would have made Marilyn Monroe blush. Gwen vibrated with laughter in his arms, which was only made worse when he began to tickle her until he'd managed to flip her over, underneath him. She looked up at him full of encouragement, egging him on to keep singing, keep moving.
But of course. The patio door slid open. The two of them sat up like teens caught making out on the sofa.
"We're just about to start. From the looks of things, so are you two. Sorry to interrupt." Lizzie's voice was far more full of elation than displeasure at the fact. She left the patio door open behind her.
Lizzie started smoothing her hair, pulling the scrunchy from her wrist, aiming to reassemble her hair into some casual updo.
He stopped her. "Leave it down. I promise I'll protect you from anyone who may recognize you. It looks fine."
She gave him a long look, considering.
"Fine."
Satisfied he grinned and took her by the hand, then led her inside to join the rest of the party and didn't let go as he closed the door behind them.