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“Hi,” he says, the words falling from his speckled lips with a shyness you’d never expect—had never expected. He is the one living the big life these days—has been for a long time now.
“Hey,” you respond carefully, not wanting to give too much away. You shove your hands deep into your pockets so you won’t reach out and touch him.
Has it really been fifteen years already? Fifteen years since your lives had blown up overnight—when in the blink of an eye you were two entirely different people than you’d been just days before. You’d still looked the same, sure, but you were suddenly someone else’s tool, someone else’s commodity. Your eyes still naive, though neither of you would’ve ever admitted it. Your bodies still young and graceful and lithe. Each of you had taken your youth for granted back then—you’d been so green behind the ears.
Has it really been fifteen years since you’d been thicker than thieves, knowing each other inside and out—or at least as well as you can know someone during a handful of months working 20 hour days, getting into each other's business in every healthy and unhealthy way imaginable?
You find it hard to believe all that time has passed. It had been the ride of your lives, at least at first. When you’d been inseparable—everyone had wanted you together and you’d wanted to be together—desperately. You hadn’t needed to play a part when it came to that. You’d felt safe, together, when the cameras had flashed too bright and the microphones had been shoved in your faces and the two of you had run, hand-in-hand, from the mob scenes that had grown out of hand because there’d been no security guards yet—that had come after.
But none of it had been real, or if it was, neither of you had been sure of it. You hadn’t been sure of it at least. Maybe he’d felt differently. Neither of you had been able to process much of anything… it had happened so fast. And you could barely keep up because at first you couldn’t say “Fuck No.” That wasn’t an option. You had to say “Yes,” and “Yes," and “Yes” again, because you were new to the scene and you had an agent and stylist to pay—and this was all you ever dreamed of. All either of you had ever dreamed of. Until one day his body started to fall apart because neither of you could be everywhere all at once and before you knew it he was barely eating, he was barely sleeping, and you were taking care of him for as long as he needed you.
It had all started out so right. You’d been kindred spirits, living just blocks apart in the same city, both working as the world’s worst waiters, when your lives had collided and sparks had flown. Everyone had seen the sparks—that had been the whole point, right? Everyone had wanted to steal the brightness for themselves. And when all was said and done they had, at least for you.
Because one day they’d shipped you together, and then the next day they’d wanted just him. After you’d taken care of him, made sure he could do the job he’d been paid to do. They’d wanted just him. All 5 foot 10 inches of his pristinely pale skin, covered with the prettiest of freckles, decorating each and every inch of him. You knew, you’d seen them all. Your tongue had licked every single one of those freckles too many times to count. On screen. Off screen. Too many times to begin to imagine for all his fans—though you're sure many had tried. When they’d still wanted you together—not just on their TV screen but for real. They’d wanted to believe the show had been just the start. That was before they’d learned who you really were—where you’d come from. How tainted you’d been by a history that had been out of your control, that you’d run away from. You were born a Milkovich, you’d die a Milkovich. That’s all there was to it.
But it hadn’t been just about you—it had been about him too. Because that fucker’d always been magnetic—more magnetic than you, even if you hadn’t wanted to admit it at first. It was a competitive industry and you’d wanted to be the best and in some ways you’d been head and shoulders above him—even if he’d had several inches on you. You were the one with all the training and it showed. But he’d been the one, at the end of the day, who’d had the staying power—who hadn’t been the one hit wonder. That had been you. You, who were only known for your piercing blue eyes, expressive face, and a voice that had brought the world to their knees for your minute and a half of fame. He’d been the one that lasted the duration—that was still burning bright for all to see.
And you’ve been fine with that—really you have. You’d moved on when the offers dried up and you couldn’t afford your agent, or your stylist, or that apartment that had given you the additional security you’d needed when your star was on the rise. It had been hard to throw in the towel but you had. You’ve always had street smarts if nothing else and you’d put them to work, finally landing back where you’d started. Not on Broadway, not in Hollywood. Just back on the stage in Chicago. With a full house for the night—it’d been a nice change. But the show is closing—you’ve had a great run. You’re not a name anymore, not really—not like he is.
But you’re working and most days you’re happy, even if he’s never far from your mind. That’s the hard part—he’s been everywhere over the years. And a part of you is proud. And a part of you is angry. Should you have stuck it out?
You didn’t expect he’d be here tonight—you’ve been waiting for him to do something like this for years. If you weren’t such a pro you’re sure you’d have flubbed your lines which would’ve been an awful way to end the run. He’d been snuck in from the back, by whom you don’t know, but you sure as shit are going to find out before the night is over.
He’d watched from the rafters. You were fairly sure he didn’t want anyone from the audience to know he was there—didn’t want to take the spotlight away from you. He never had wanted that. You know that for sure. But he’d wanted you to know he was there.
Fifteen years already. And you only have one question—well, one that actually matters.
He’d never wanted you to leave—tried to fight to keep you by his side. Even as the fans turned against you—even as the fandom died and the stories, intrusive as they were, stopped being written because you moved on without him. Or as far as they’d been concerned, he’d moved on without you.
And he’s holding flowers… fucking flowers in those large pale hands of his. Blue stargazer lilies. You don’t remember ever telling him you loved them. But you must have, ‘cause how would he know?
You wonder was his hair always that red—always that bright? Did he always sparkle like he’s doing right now? Has fame done this to him or has he always been just like this? You’re pretty sure he was normal once upon a time—when he was with you. In the before of it all.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he mumbles, which cracks you up. How can a person possibly be fifteen years late? It’s a funny thing for him to say in the first place since he was always the one who made sure you got anywhere on time, the one who picked out your clothes, made sure you did everything just right. He’d understood the business way better than you—knew how to market himself so he wasn’t just a body, that he was more than that. If you were honest with yourself, he’d worked harder for it back then.
“Who the fuck snuck you in?” is all you can think to say… or rather, the only thing you think you should say. The words that would give you away are right on the tip or your tongue but thank God you're an actor so saying something bitchy comes almost as easy.
“I’m still South Side. I’ve got my ways.” And then he winks at you. The fucker winks at you. It’s the wink he’s known for… the wink that makes all the women get horny and the gays get hard. You’re getting hard.
“Got you these.” He’s shoved the flowers at you as if you’re blind—they’d been impossible to miss. “The same blue as your eyes.”
And this is him. Always had been. Open and honest with his heart on a platter for you. At least you can honestly say you never once took it for granted.
“They were my mom’s favorite.” You're sure your smile is as big as his now—you don’t have the energy to play hard to get. You never had with him. It had been easy from the start—he had been easy from the start. And maybe that had been the problem when all was said and done—it had been too easy and life does not operate that way. At least not when you’re from the South Side.
“I remember. But you didn’t think I was listening when you talked about her—but I’ve always loved your voice. Don’t you remember when we were filming and I would zone out just listening to your voice? And the scene would need to be reshot yet again cause I fucked it up. I kept every word you said, Mick. Every word.”
“Heck of a night to turn up. You’re not in this neck of the woods much anymore. You’re slummin’ it, Red.”
“If I told you I want another chance—outside of the fame, outside of the spotlight—would you give it to me?” The earnestness of the words would take your breath away if you didn’t know how good of an actor he’s become. You're sure you’ve watched every movie he’s ever made at this point—you’ve seen his growth just like the rest of the world. He’d only ever slummed it on tv with you—and never again with a man. He’s never so much as kissed a man on screen—of that you’re sure. You’d been surprised by that choice. Had never decided if you should be grateful. Your jealous streak is something and you know he’s been getting plenty of game off the screen. He never has hid that from the world.
“Fifteen years. For fuck’s sake Ian, it’s been Goddamn fifteen years.” Your voice is raised which is stupid because you know the hallway outside your dressing room is full, you can hear all the voices creeping through the thin walls. They’ll be knocking down your door soon to make a speech with the director. It’s part of the gig when you’re the lead of the show—especially after the curtain falls for the last time. It’s your job.
“We ain’t kids anymore, Mick. They’ll leave us alone this time—I know this business now and I know how to shut shit down. And we don’t have to jump through the hoops like we once did. We can hide away from it all.”
“You tellin’me you’re gonna give me the moon, Gallagher?” You say the words in jest but you mean each and every one of them. You're pretty sure he knows it too.
“Not fuckin’ manic, Mick. I can’t give you the moon. But I can lie down with you under the stars and ask if you ever thought, back in the day, this is where we’d be?”
“You mean you, running away from your fans?” You shrug after thinking about it for a minute. ”Yeah, I could have predicted it.” A part of you had known right from the start his star would rise and outshine you and everyone else. You ask the question that you’ve been wondering from the minute you saw him tonight. That one you’ve waited fifteen years to ask. “You ever think of me? After I left?”
“A lot.” His voice is so soft—and it’s perfect. And fifteen years is a long time. But he’s worth the wait.