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“Each player writes a message to the other.”
“Yeah.”
“Fold, and exchange.”
“Okay.”
“Open only once you two have parted.”
Greg doesn’t open his.
He can’t say why he doesn’t. Or rather, he could give a litany of reasons – because the likelihood of Alex being sincere on a small slip of paper is about as high as the likelihood that Greg’ll sprout wings and fly, or because Alex will probably have made some sort of terrible joke, or has literally written the words ‘a message to the other’, or what have you – but really, the exact reason doesn’t really matter.
What matters is that he slips the small, folded piece of paper into the pocket of his jeans, and when Alex and Greg are done with the multitude of interviews they have on that day, once they’re back at the hotel for a quick break before making their way to the theater to get ready for that night’s show, once they’ve split apart for the first time all day and Greg is back in the safety and loneliness of his solitude, he can’t bring himself to open it.
He’s sure Alex already has, because Alex, for his many virtues, absolutely hates not knowing things. In fact, Greg wouldn’t be surprised if Alex hadn’t even waited until they were back at the hotel, had used one of his many wee breaks throughout the day to open the paper and read what Greg wrote.
Greedy boy.
But Greg thinks it might be worse to know. While it’s still in his pocket, folded neatly, it’s sort of Schrödinger’s message. It can say everything that Greg wants or needs it to, or nothing that Greg wants or needs it to, depending entirely on his mood.
So it stays folded, first in the pocket of his jeans and then, when they’re backstage getting changed into their Taskmaster costumes, he slips it into his wallet for safekeeping before he hands his wallet and phone to Paul to look after.
And there it stays.
It stays through the entire flight back over the Atlantic, when Alex nods off, drooling slightly against Greg’s shoulder, his soft snores a surprisingly soothing backdrop to Greg’s usual insomnia made far worse by altitude and jet lag. It stays for the Uber ride back to his, for the two trips he has to make up the stairs to his flat with all of his luggage because he drastically overpacked and it was only made worse by the many gifts they were given in the States, and he huffs curses under his breath as he lugs everything up to his place before collapsing on the sofa and vowing to unpack the next day.
It stays for the next week as he continues telling himself that he’ll unpack the following day.
It stays until he goes to buy a coffee at the local café and pulls out a ten pound note, dislodging it in the process. He’s not forgotten about it, not exactly – it’s more like the luggage still in his hall. He knows he needs to do something about it sooner rather than later, but he’s basically built his routine around avoiding dealing with it now, and he’s loath to change that unless he has to.
This is, of course, a perfectly healthy attitude to have and would not at all raise any concerns with a mental health professional, thank you very much.
He goes home from the café and finally unpacks as a sort of, ‘see? perfectly healthy’ point proven.
Which in and of itself is probably unhealthy.
He doesn’t open the note, though.
It becomes a sort of talisman, if Greg was the sort of person who believed in such things, at least. A little good luck charm he keeps on himself, as his tour starts up again, as he finalises scripts for the fourth series of The Cleaner, as he spends most of his time down at his place in Cornwall.
The leather of his wallet wears around the little folded note, like his wallet when he was a teenager did around the condom he used to carry, just in case some poor girl decided she was interested. It’s comforting, the way he can rub his thumb around the edge of it, can feel the piece of paper, safe and waiting for him for when he’s ready.
He doesn’t reckon he’ll ever be ready, especially not now that he’s built it up so much in his head. Alex could’ve written the most beautiful, poetic thing, and it’ll still feel like a disappointment.
So the note stays in his wallet, and Greg might have forgotten about it entirely, except that he thinks of Alex far too often to forget about it, or him.
And except that it falls out of his wallet once more, only this time, in the worst possible place it could have.
Because this time, he’s stood at the bar at a pub close enough to BBC Television Centre that they could all walk there, but not close enough that it’s likely any of the audience also walked there, his shoulder pressed against Alex’s as they wait for their drinks. He’s pulled out his wallet to pay, and the stupid, traitorous note flutters out of it like a single piece of confetti, and Greg’s fairly certain that his heart actually stops beating for a moment when Alex bends down to grab it off the floor.
“Here,” Alex says, handing it back to him. “You dropped this.”
Greg’s mouth is dry, but Alex doesn’t seem to have any curiosity in the note, doesn’t seem to recognise it for what it is. Which of course makes sense, because Alex hasn’t been carrying it around for the past four months, has probably forgotten entirely about the weird little truth-telling game they played as part of an interview amongst all the other interviews they did in America.
“Thanks,” Greg grunts, taking it back from him.
He doesn’t put it back in his wallet, though, instead rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, scraping the blunt edge of his fingernail along the slightly crumpled edge of the paper.
The landlord returns with their drinks and Alex glances up at Greg. “Do you mind?” he asks, leaning in so Greg can hear him over the crowd. “I need to use the toilet.”
Greg rolls his eyes affectionately. “Of course you do,” he sighs, reaching automatically for Alex’s beer. “Go on, I’ll grab a table.”
Alex gives him a quick grin before scurrying off to the toilet, though he’s intercepted almost immediately by one of the Andys. Greg just shakes his head as he carries their drinks back to an open table in the far corner, and it’s only once he’s sat down that he realises he still has the note in hand.
He takes a quick gulp of his drink, and then another, eyeing the little piece of paper warily, as if it’s liable to explode or start tap-dancing or something. It doesn’t, of course, just lies on the table where he’s set it because it is, after all, just a note.
It’s just a note.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It means everything.
Maybe it’s time, he thinks as he swallows another gulp from his glass. Maybe it’s long past time. Maybe he needed to rip the plaster off and see if it really was all just something he’s made up in his head.
He reaches for the note and picks it up, running a finger across the quarter-folded piece of paper. He should just put it back in his wallet. He should’ve opened it four months ago.
He unfolds it once, smoothing the crease, and he takes a deep, steadying breath before unfolding it a second time, squinting down at handwriting he can’t quite read in the dim pub light. “What’s that?” Alex asks loudly from behind him and Greg jumps about a foot in the air, banging his knee into the table as he does, and drops the note as if he’s been scalded.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, as Alex stifles a laugh, sliding onto the seat across from him. “Give me some warning next time, would you—”
But he breaks off in horror as Alex lifts his pint, his now only about three-quarters full pint, the rest of the beer splashed across the table from when Greg had hit it, including and especially—
Alex rescues the note from a puddle of lager. “Oh dear,” he says, shaking the now-sodden piece of paper as if that’s somehow going to bring back the penciled words that have disintegrated under the beer. “Sorry about that.”
Greg takes the paper automatically, staring down at it and the only two words that are still legible at the very top.
Dear Greg,
“Fuck,” he says, and Alex’s brow furrows.
“Something important?” he asks with genuine concern, and Greg shakes his head automatically.
“No,” he says, though the word sounds weirdly hollow. “It’s– it was nothing.”
But Alex has already reached for the note, taking it back from Greg and flipping it around, his eyebrows raising as he presumably recognises his own handwriting. He glances up at Greg. “Is this—”
“No,” Greg repeats, though he’s not sure why he’s denying it.
Alex almost looks like he wants to laugh, though he apparently manages to read Greg’s mood slightly better than that. “Have you been carrying this with you this entire time?” Greg shrugs somewhat helplessly and Alex shakes his head. “Well,” he says, and something in Greg’s chest tightens at how genuinely touched Alex sounds by that, “hopefully you’ve memorised whatever it is I wrote.”
Greg clears his throat. “I, erm, I actually hadn’t gotten a chance to read it,” he mumbles, grateful that the dim light will hide the flush he can feel rising in his face.
Alex’s eyes widen. “You never read it?” he asks, sounding more stricken than scandalised. “And now it’s– well, ruined, I suppose.”
“It’s fine,” Greg says automatically, grabbing his drink and draining it in one long gulp. “Really, it—” He can’t quite bring himself to lie, to say it meant nothing, not after all this time. He sets his glass down and stares at the still-wet table as he asks, wincing as he does, “I don’t suppose you, erm, remember what you wrote?”
He hates how hopeful he sounds, when he’d much rather sound like it doesn’t matter, like he doesn’t care.
Alex winces and shakes his head. “I don’t remember,” he says. “Genuinely, I’m sorry. I have absolutely no idea what I wrote.”
Greg jerks a nod. “Right.”
Alex worries his lower lip between his teeth before offering, “I mean, I can guess, if you’d like.”
It’s better than nothing, Greg supposes, in the part of his brain that doesn’t feel, stupidly, like his entire world has just been smashed to bits. “Yeah, go on then,” he says. “What do you guess you wrote?”
“Knowing me—” Alex starts, and Greg can’t help but interject, because Alex is still looking at him with those wide, sombre eyes and Greg desperately needs this to be funny sooner rather than later, something he can laugh at to keep from feeling like he might actually cry over a stupid fucking note.
“And knowing that you’re a prick, yeah.”
Alex ignores him, which just makes Greg feel worse. “I probably wrote something stupid like, ‘If you are reading this, then we have parted’.”
It’s exactly the sort of thing that Alex would have written, and Greg manages a slightly pained laugh, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “Fucking hell.”
Alex nods in agreement. “It does seem like the sort of thing I would do.”
“Yeah,” Greg says. “Yeah, it does.” He barks a slightly more genuine laugh and shakes his head. “Well, glad I’ve been carrying that around for four months.”
Alex gives him a tiny smile. “If you’d like, I can write you a new note,” he offers.
The offer is genuine, which is surprising, considering it’s Alex and the moments when he’s genuine are few and far between, but Greg just shakes his head. “I think the moment’s rather passed now, mate,” he says bracingly.
He reaches for his glass and pulls a face when he realises it’s empty. He glances over his shoulder at the bar to see if it’s thinned out enough that he can get another, but Alex reaches across the table, grabbing his wrist. “Are you cross?” he asks, and Greg looks back at him.
“About what?”
“The note being ruined?” Alex says, the answer sounding more like a question. “Or me not remembering what I wrote?”
There are a great many things that Greg is feeling, or more accurately, that Greg is trying desperately to squash down inside to avoid feeling, but being cross at Alex isn’t high among them. “I can’t really be cross at you for either of those things, now can I,” he says, not pitching it as a question.
But Alex just shakes his head. “You can,” he says. “You could.”
Greg knows what Alex is offering, that Alex would rather Greg be cross at him than feeling any of the other things he is. It’s sweet, in a way, and that just makes Greg feel worse. “Yeah, but I’m not,” he says instead, forcing himself to look away. “Not really.” He slides his hand out from Alex’s grip and stands. “I’m, er, I’m gonna grab another drink. You want another pint, since half your lager’s still all over the table?”
An exaggeration, but it seems like the right thing to ask regardless.
Alex shakes his head again. “Best not,” he says apologetically. “I am meant to drive home tonight.”
Greg blinks, because they hadn’t discussed it, but he sort of assumed— “Not crashing at mine?”
Alex fiddles with the cuff of his jumper. “One of the boys has a thing tomorrow—”
Greg holds his hands up in defeat. “Say no more,” he says, grabbing his empty glass and taking it up to the bar. He considers going out for a vape, or even just making a quick, quiet exit while he still can, but they’re only halfway through recording this series, and he doesn’t want Alex to spend the weekend thinking that Greg is actually mad at him.
He’s not.
Mostly, he’s angry with himself.
By the time he gets back to the table, he and Alex have been joined by a bunch of other people, and the note, now a soggy lump next to the wet napkins Alex had used in Greg’s absence to mop up the rest of the beer, is mostly forgotten. They make it through another half hour or so before Alex begs off, citing the need to drive home and goodnaturedly accepting the boos and jeers that accompany that announcement.
Greg stands up to give Alex a hug before he leaves. He doesn’t mention the note, just holds Alex for a moment or two too long before telling him, “See you on Monday, mate.”
Alex gives him a small smile before waving at everyone else and leaving.
Once Alex is gone, Greg doesn’t really have a reason to stay, and has even less of reason to put on a cheerful demeanour, so rather than ruin everyone else’s mood, he makes his own excuses a few minutes after Alex and leaves. He spends the ride home staring out the window of the taxi and trying not to think about the empty spot in his wallet where the note used to be.
He gets home and he heaves a sigh as he flips the light on, staring at his living room and wondering when it too started to feel so empty.
He shakes his head to clear it before grabbing his wallet from his back pocket and setting it down on the table in the hall. He runs his thumb over the outline of where the note had been and tells himself that the pain in his chest is just heartburn, nothing more.
He pats his other pockets to make sure he’s not left a biro or something in them that he’ll otherwise only discover after he’s done the wash and the bloody thing’s exploded, and pauses when he feels something in his front pocket. He digs a crumpled napkin out of his pocket, his brow furrowing, because he doesn’t remember putting a napkin in his pocket.
Then he freezes when he sees the handwriting on the napkin.
Dear Greg, the note begins in Alex’s crooked writing, made worse by the haste with which he must’ve scrawled it while Greg was getting another drink, I wish I could remember what I wrote, but maybe it’s better that I can’t. Because now I get another crack at it, a chance to write something better. And that’s this: we said we’d do this as long as we’re still having fun, but the trouble is, I will always have fun with you. So I hope you’re prepared to put up with me forever, because as far as I’m concerned, ‘once you two have parted’ will be never. Love, Alex
Greg feels a grin spread across his face, and because he’s alone and there’s no one there to see him, he presses the napkin to his chest and holds it there like he’d so much rather be holding Alex.
“Idiot,” he scolds himself aloud, but even that is far too delighted, and he grabs his phone and sends a message to Alex: Forever sounds good to me xx
Then he carefully folds the napkin and tucks it into his wallet. The leather stretches in a different way from before to accommodate the additional bulk, but Greg doesn’t mind.
As far as he’s concerned, it’s perfect.
And as far as he’s concerned, it’ll stay that way.
Forever.