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He's anxious.
It's been weeks. There's always the large group chat, of course, but frankly it doesn't get used nearly as much as the smaller group chat where Isa, Supriya, and Shabana wreak havoc on his phone. He's one of the girlies—as dubbed by them.
But right now, Gerran's anxious. It's only just now started for him. When he’s away from it all back home, it's easier to let the memories blend together. He has a blessed handful of months before shooting is set up to start again, and in the meantime, he just gets weekly updates as the show drops each episode every Thursday evening back in the States. Which is supposed to be enough.
Until his phone buzzes on his desk. A Zoom interview for him. Now with an update—Noah’s joining them too. In three hours.
And since that little message four minutes ago, Gerran's felt a little sick to his stomach.
They've done this before, last year after wrapping the first season. In time for the finale, they'd done an interview online that felt almost like a lifeline for him. At that point they had only recently been confirmed for the second season, so an online interview for an article seemed pretty easy to do, even if it was with Noah of all people. Last year, everything seemed so new and large. Just the accolades and verbal achievements were enough to shut the little voice in his head up, that little voice that made his stomach sit heavier in his core whenever Noah Wyle was involved.
Either way, he's had to get over it. And now, he's sitting here, absolutely not over it, and whereas last year he was aware of his plans for the most part, right now he's trying not to chew his nail off its bed as his mind races about what to say to Noah after not having spoken in person to him for two months.
First, he thinks firmly to himself, get ready. It won't be aired, just used for the article meant to publish for the season finale like last time. That's easy. His hair is damp from his shower, and his laptop webcam is grainy as all hell, so he doesn't need to work too hard. Just his regular skincare routine and some gel.
Clothes—maybe he has something new…
Gerran scrubs his eyes. That's ridiculous. Just pick a tee, of course. It's a casual interview no longer than a half hour. There's zero reason to think any more about this than was absolutely necessary.
His hand inches toward his dresser, though. He has his clip-on earrings there. Only sparingly does he wear them now—especially since they pinch his lobe pretty tight—but…
Twenty seconds later, he has his favorite discrete silver hoop on his ear. He lets himself admire it in his mirror for a moment as he slips his other rings onto his hands before turning back to his phone.
There’s a text he must’ve missed while doing his hair.
Noah W.
Got swept up into the Daily Beast thing last second in case u didn’t hear
Gerran looked at the text for a while longer. He doubts it was as simple as “swept up” but doesn’t want to question it too much. I heard, he texts back, and then adds some more: Can’t wait to chat 👂
Noah W.
Ear??
He grins a little to himself. His stomach’s settling. That’s right—he’s forgotten how easy it can be. Sry. 💬*
Noah W.
Lol
Gerran has to put his phone facedown and stare at his ceiling for four seconds before forcing himself to stand and try not to send any more texts.The anxiety’s gone, now, replaced with a hum that he only gets after these somewhat rare exchanges. His text thread with Noah isn’t empty—on the contrary, it’s quite filled in, but the messages tend to be check-ins from shoots, promos, a stupid meme Gerran has the courage to send him every once in a while with a casual response in return, and the occasional note of affirmation or pride whenever they decide to inflate each other’s egos after a warranted event.
But as always, Gerran’s good at keeping whatever he needs to on the down low. The anxiety will grab him for only a few minutes, and then he’ll shove it away, he’ll do what he has to do to get Noah to say “great job, as always” and then it’s done until the next time. And he’ll just sustain himself on those few words in the interim.
The interview grows closer and his phone’s silent. Honestly, he never expects anything more than what he’s gotten. They’re professionals and Gerran’s the one nursing this ridiculous crush on his older married coworker, Noah fucking Wyle. So whatever he gets is what he gets and it’ll all be fine and he won’t laugh too much (impossible) and he won’t let the warmth in his stomach spill over onto his cheeks (also impossible).
Eventually, he’s sitting with his laptop at his desk with a glass of ice water to keep himself cool and he’s staring at the Zoom link. He’s got ten minutes until he’s supposed to hop on.
“Fine,” he mutters to himself, video off and mic muted, and clicks on the link to sit in the waiting room. He’s about to spring up from his chair immediately after to pace around his room when he sees Noah’s already there, and his camera’s on, so Gerran can see him squinting at his phone with his glasses while he waits.
Gerran’s eyes flicker to the camera and mic icon on his own screen, just to double-check. Triple-check. Yep, he’s still muted and his camera’s still off. With a shaky inhale, he gets up and paces for a moment anyway, before finally sitting back down and taking a sip of his ice-cold water.
His eyes roam over Noah. He looks as good as ever. He also hasn’t noticed that Gerran’s joined the call, which is a little funny.
Unmuting himself, Gerran says, “Hi.”
Noah doesn’t move. A stupid little smile pulls at the corners of Gerran’s lips for a split second. He definitely doesn’t have the audio output set up properly. He turns on his camera, checks himself real quick to make sure he looks good, and then confirms it, but Noah still doesn’t look up from his phone even though Gerran’s definitely coming through on his end.
Gerran picks up his phone and texts him: Helloooooo 👋
With the lag, it takes a couple seconds for Noah to frown at his phone and tap the notification, and even longer for him to type something back. But Gerran gets the reply faster than it comes across on screen.
Noah W.
In the waiting room
Something sickly fond spreads through Gerran’s chest. Oh, no. He smothers it and texts back:
Already here
Fix the audio output or put in your earphones or something
Again, a couple seconds pass, but then Noah’s head shoots up and then a beaming smile splits across his face at the sight of Gerran. That awful affection spreads through him again and he knows the tips of his ears are going red. He can only hope it doesn’t come across with his lighting and grainy camera.
“Hold on, hold on,” Noah says as he clicks around on his computer. Gerran can hear him click on his trackpad as he fixes his output. “Okay, that should be better.”
“Finally,” says Gerran, and it takes a while, but Noah’s smile broadens even more, and the old man lays his cheek in his hand and that is the look that will sit in Gerran’s head for the next three months before they’re back in for the next season.
“It’s nice to see you,” says Noah. His palm moves from his cheek to his ear and twiddles his lobe. “I like your earring.”
“Oh,” says Gerran. He’s honestly forgotten he put it on. “It’s, er. It’s a clip-on.” He taps it to make sure it’s still there. The pressure of it twinges. He’ll be able to take it off when they’re done, thankfully. “I’ve worn it before.”
“I remember,” says Noah. He messes with his own earlobe again. “I still have a piercing here. Can’t feel a thing. If you keep wearing one you may as well pierce your ear. It’s not that obvious. I knew a ton of classmates who ended up getting gauges and removing even those isn’t too obvious if they aren’t that big.”
He keeps talking about it, god knows what for, but Gerran's certainly not complaining. He's crossed his legs under his desk, leaning forward on his elbows, feeling a bit silly like he’s on a fucking date. As Noah talks about his stupid little stud collection (it’s always one collection or another with him), Gerran looks at the time. In just a moment the journalist will hop on.
“Wow,” says Noah, who happens to look at the time only a little bit after Gerran does. “Getting ahead of myself again. Stop me next time!”
“What for? No one’s here yet,” says Gerran, and he’s mouthing a little at his nail again before catching himself. “I like hearing about your studs.”
It comes out weird.
He can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Stud earrings,” he corrects, “though other types of studs too.”
Again, it comes out weird.
“Stupid joke,” he says, shaking his head, and god help him, the look Noah’s sending feels like a smack in the face made of pure pity. He opens his mouth to most likely dig his grave a little deeper when the program chimes and suddenly, a third face is there—the journalist.
“So nice to have you two back!” she says, and immediately Gerran schools his expression, sits back in his chair politely, and it’s time to talk about the end of the season.
The interview goes on five minutes longer than it should because, like always, Noah likes to yap and Gerran likes to laugh. There’s a passive comment from the journalist about how refreshing it is to have an interview with the two of them because it feels like they’re both in the room with her. Noah agrees, going on again to talk about how nice it is to do these end-of-season press reviews since it means he can see the cast—namely Gerran, since they’re here together—again.
“I’m all lonely in my neck of the woods,” Gerran says as part of his little closer. “Can’t ever complain about meeting up with some of my favorite people.”
Again. Weird. Not as weird, but warrants an internal wince, though there’s not much that can be used with that as a quote outside of something decidedly heartwarming.
The journalist seems delighted with it anyway. “I’m one of Gerran Howell’s favorite people, sounds like.”
“You got it,” said Gerran, extremely, totally, absolutely thankful that she’s spun it around the way she has. “And here I was just trying to pay a compliment under the table.”
With some more passing words of banter and cordial goodbyes, the interview’s done, and the journalist hops off the Zoom call. Gerran’s cursor hovers over the End Call button.
Noah’s still on. He’s smiling at the screen. “That went well.”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“You have a knack for it,” says Noah. He doesn’t seem like he has any intention of hanging up.
It also isn’t the first time he’s said this to him. Gerran’s well aware he’s pretty good at the press side of things, but the affirmation only makes the warmth in his belly grow. Still, he smothers the feeling again, only letting himself smile, hiding behind his finger again as he rubs at his lip, trying to keep the smile from growing into a larger-bodied grin.
“I like your rings,” Noah says, nodding at the rings on his fingers. “I think one is new?”
He keeps track? Despite his best efforts, the warmth slowly creeps from his belly into his chest and up his neck. “New to you, I think,” says Gerran. He doesn't let any of what he's feeling show through any cracks. “I have a lot more here at home than I travel with to the States.” Gerran glances at the ring. It’s a somewhat textured band of brushed nickel on his middle finger.
“Your rings always look good on you,” says Noah. “I couldn’t pull off that many.”
But his wedding ring suits him just fine. An extension of his hand.
“I just happen upon them is all,” says Gerran, looking down at it, then at his other hand with the other rings. Suddenly he doesn’t want to look up.
“Same chain, though,” comes Noah’s voice from his airpods.
Gerran doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s like Noah’s taking inventory of what’s in front of him. The same hand comes up, fiddles with his necklace chain. “I don’t change this out often,” he says, “unless I have to for a shoot or something.” He forces himself to look at the screen anyway. “Anything else? Should I show you my watch? I only have the one.”
To his credit, Noah looks sheepish. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to start itemizing you like on a store receipt.”
“It’s fine. Not the first time I’ve been checked out,” says Gerran.
Noah looks like he’s been shot.
“Er,” says Gerran, mouth suddenly full of lead. “Checked out. At the till. At the shop. Where you get a receipt. Not…”
Who is he kidding? There’s no other way than to take it than at face value. It’s a solid joke, though. For someone who doesn’t have an incredibly inappropriate infatuation with the married actor twenty years his senior who he works with. But because Gerran does have that incredibly inappropriate infatuation, he’s expecting a polite but terse goodbye, conversation cut short, and the stupid little line all but forgotten when they meet up again to start shooting in three months.
For all the thoughts racing in his head, though, Gerran’s eyes can’t leave the screen. Noah’s rubbing his neck now, suddenly looking exhausted. Surely the call will end soon.
“I don’t blame you,” says Noah, quietly. “Gerran, maybe I’ve been leading you on in some ways. You shouldn’t let me.”
A long high-pitched ring starts sounding in Gerran’s ears. He sits there, waiting for it to go away, but having no clue what to say in return. When the ringing’s dulled, he says, “What are you talking about?”
“This,” says Noah, and he gestures between the two of them from his end of the call.
“You…”
Something like alarm suddenly sparks in Noah’s expression. “You know what, forget it. Forget I said anything.”
“No, wait, wait. Don’t hang up. I know you want to hang up. Don’t,” says Gerran firmly.
Nothing happens for several hot beats.
“You haven't been leading me on,” says Gerran. He can't believe those words are leaving his mouth. “You have to know that. I got here all on my own.” It occurs to him after the fact that he's skipped through denying any feelings he might harbor whatsoever.
Noah seems to have the same thought. “Jesus,” he mutters. He rubs his temple, eyes crinkling as his lips press together into a stressed thin line.
“So…” starts Gerran. “So, you know, don't…” The words trail off as he catches up to the other thing that Noah said. “Did you say I shouldn't ‘let you’ lead me on?”
On the screen, Noah flinches. He sighs and shakes his head. “Oh boy.”
Somehow, after that, his nerves calm themselves a little bit. Okay. This isn't just on him. This is both of them fucking up. Unless Noah is cruel and twisted, which Gerran knows he isn't, then this is on both of them.
“Seriously,” says Noah, shaking his head more. “Let’s just forget it. I misspoke.”
But it’s out there now. Two years of getting comfortable with each other. Laughing a little too much, which happens to Gerran with pretty much everyone when he enjoys their company, but now to a bit of an embarrassing degree with Noah. A few drinks here and there sometimes, leaning into him, Noah not helping when he doesn’t push him away, when he breathes him in.
Those are the memories that burn that sit low in Gerran’s gut that he doesn’t focus on. He’s never let any of that get in the way, not when he’s halfway across the world like he is now.
It’ll just be a handful of minutes Gerran will file away along with the rest, and when he’s back in June, they’ll be past it.
“Okay,” says Gerran. “So did I. It’s fine.”
Ignoring the fact that it means Gerran “misspoke” around five times in the last hour, of course.
Noah nods, lips still thinned. “Have you figured out if you can make it for PaleyFest?”
Which would be in time for the finale. “Not sure,” says Gerran. “I want to.”
“Fingers crossed,” Noah tells him.
Anxious—Gerran’s anxious again. He’s come full circle to three hours ago before the interview. “Well,” he says, slapping a big bright smile on his face, immediately bringing a hand up to his ear to pull off the clip-on earring. It stings a bit as he yanks it off a little too harshly. He knows his earlobe’s probably red. “It’s dinner time for me. Heading out.”
“Sure.” Noah’s voice is quieter now. “It was nice to see you.”
“You too,” Gerran says, still with that big smile etched on his cheeks. “Talk to you later.” With a quick wave, he hangs up, double checks that he’s hanged up, and immediately he feels like he needs to scream out of his window. He won’t.
His phone buzzes. Gerran exhales. He’s probably missed a few things while he was on the call.
A text from Noah’s waiting for him when he unlocks it. He doesn’t click on the notification to open his messaging app, just reads it from the bar because it’s short.
Noah W.
I’m sorry
Gerran locks his phone and really, really, really tries to forget about it.
As a surprise to absolutely no one, Gerran commits to PaleyFest and finds himself a month later in his hotel the night before. Right now, he's trying to figure out if he wants to join in on some of the cast’s outing for the night to catch up, or if he wants to sleep early since he’s not acclimated to the time zone yet.
It’s decided for him when Shabana texts saying she’s at the same hotel and that she’ll drag him out if he declines. Then a group call comes in; he can hear Supriya in the background after he accepts the call.
“I might pass out at dinner,” he warns them, slipping on his shoes.
“Wake up!” Supriya yells from wherever she is, and Shabana, who’s actually on the phone, laughs. On a different line is Isa but it looks like her mic is muted.
“Where are we going for food?”
“Dunno yet, might have something picked up, brought back,” says Shabana.
“So why can’t I just stay in my room and sleep?”
“Nooooo. We’re going out!” comes Supriya’s voice, much closer now. “Others are heading out too. Someone made a reservation somewhere. We’re all meeting up. Brazilian steakhouse, I think. With a good salad bar. Something for everyone.”
“Hi,” comes Isa’s voice all of a sudden. “Just got to my room. I guess we’re all in the same hotel. They put us all together, huh?”
“We’re all going to Gerran’s room after for drinks,” says Shabana.
“No you are not,” says Gerran, suddenly wide awake.
“Hold on, telling everyone,” says Isa. She says something muffled—then back into the phone: “Patrick’s in. He just got his room key.”
“No no no no no,” he complains, but he’s grinning his face off. He starts getting ready, freshening up from the flight, snapping his earring on, slipping on his other rings, making sure the bags under his eyes don't look too severe.
The call goes on like that for a while. When they find themselves in Beverly Hills in front of the steakhouse, Gerran’s genuinely wide awake now, and having a blast. He’s really, really, really missed them.
There’s a big table for all of them there. And then Gerran sees Noah. Because of course he’s there, and somehow Gerran forgot. It’s all good, though, because it’s crowded enough that he’s pretty much forced to sit down immediately with Isa, Supriya, Shabana, and Patrick when they all arrive together. They all wave as a group to each other, which makes it easy for Gerran, who just plasters on the same smile he’s had all night and immediately gets wrapped up in off-Broadway talk from Patrick and Isa.
Supriya kicks at Gerran’s leg after most of the table’s settled in. “Salad bar?” They both excuse themselves, awkwardly shoving in their chairs against the carpet, and make their way to the leafy greens, cheeses, smoked salmon, all the classic staples at a steakhouse like this.
“Thank god we’re all back in the same spot,” said Supriya, on his left. “I have so much to tell you guys.”
“Catch me up on everything I missed,” says Gerran. He grabs a few balls of mozzarella cheese to go with the spring mix. “I’m always trapped in a bubble back home. Though that’s changed a little bit since HBO’s airing in the UK now.”
“Getting shout-outs while grocery shopping?”
“A couple times,” he admits. “Even the market isn’t safe anymore.”
“Gerran Howell,” says Supriya, like it’s a big secret. “The Welsh Prince.”
He groans. “Oh, stop it.”
“Uh, hey, it’s true. Right, Noah?”
Gerran’s head shoots up. Noah’s somehow standing to the left of Supriya, also loading up at the bar. He hadn’t heard him come by.
“Right what?” says Noah.
Supriya doesn’t repeat herself. She and Gerran both glance at his plate. It’s perhaps the most complex salad Gerran’s seen put together outside of a restaurant kitchen, and he’s got a bowl of soup tucked onto a corner of the place, topped with cheese.
“Well, at least this place has something for everyone,” says Supriya. “I know you don’t eat meat but leave some of the salad bar for the rest of us. That soup looks good.” And she wanders away to the lineup of soups on the opposite end of the bar.
Gerran turns back to pick at some beets. He doesn’t eat beets. He picks one up and lays it next to the mozzarella on his plate. The juice immediately makes it look like there’s been a murder on his cheese.
Beside him, Noah moves closer. His plate’s full so he’s not doing anything except standing there. “Nice to see you,” he says, all gentle.
“You too,” Gerran replies, smiling mostly to himself, before sighing. “I don’t know why I picked this up. It looks like someone died on my plate.”
“You don’t want it?”
“Do you want it?” Gerran angles his head, looks at Noah’s plate. “If it’ll fit.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” says Noah. He forks into the singular slice of beet and it drips over the rest of Gerran’s plate before Noah settles it at the corner of his salad masterpiece.
“Now look at what you did.” Gerran’s mostly kidding, but a speck of it landed on his white sleeve, and there’s no way that’s coming out easily.
Noah immediately apologizes. “Shit. I’m sorry. Maybe it’ll come out. If not, I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s not a big deal,” says Gerran, moving on from the beets to dried apricots. He takes a couple of them, pops one in his mouth, picks up an extra with a nod of approval. When Noah keeps following him, making no move to go sit back down, Gerran sets the tongs for the apricots in their designated plate and says, “What’s up?”
“Just…” Noah raises his eyebrows, looks around, then meets Gerran’s look. “Wanted to say hi, I guess.”
“Hi,” says Gerran. It’s in fact the first time they greeted each other in the twenty minutes they’ve been here.
Nodding, Noah rocks back on his heels a bit. “Hi.”
“You okay?” Gerran asks. He shouldn't be asking this.
“I came here to ask you that,” says Noah. “But this probably isn't the place.”
No, it really isn't. They're getting in the way of others who also want beets and dried apricots. In fact, Gerran's worried that if he stays any longer, he'll want to keep talking.
“Well,” says Gerran, stepping away from the salad bar, away from Noah. His plate is a measly amount of spring mix, too much fresh mozzarella, a trail of beet juice droplets that end with a speck on his sleeve, and two small dried apricots. “I'm good.” He meets Noah’s eyes. “I swear I'm okay, so if you're worrying about anything… it's fine.”
Noah doesn't move from his spot, plate full to the brim, nodding slowly.
Gerran's about to take his sorry excuse of a plate back to the table, but not before he steps back forward and, with his fingers, picks up that little beet from Noah's plate and plops it back next to the mozzarella. He licks the bright purple juice from his fingers.
“It's not bad,” he says, peering at Noah, who certainly isn't looking at his lips.
He backs away before escaping to the table. Noah doesn't stop him.
It takes Gerran six tries to convince the girls and Patrick not to come back to his room. They make it to Isa’s room instead, cracking open a bottle of champagne just for kicks. Supriya, who really doesn't get stopped as much when she's got a face full of make-up, stops by CVS on the way to procure cheap plastic champagne flutes meant for one-time use, so now they're feeling extra fancy and delightful.
“Someone’s phone keeps buzzing,” says Isa, who's sprawled out on her bed. “I dunno where it is but it's driving me crazy.”
“Might be my alarm,” he mumbles, standing. It would track with the time zone difference. “Where'd I put my…”
“Jackets’re in a pile in the closet,” says Patrick. He's trying to dodge Shabana, who keeps throwing the cork from the champagne at him.
The noise is, sure enough, louder in the closet. He finds his phone easily. It's not an alarm. Noah’s rung him three times.
Gerran swallows. “I, er, have to take this. I'll be back.” He pulls his coat from the pile.
“Mario Party later,” says Shabana, and Patrick immediately grabs the cork so she can't throw it at him anymore. “Better not miss it.”
They laugh him off into the hallway where it's quiet. When the door shuts, Gerran sighs. He pads slowly to the stairs to descend one floor where his own room is, checking his phone, wondering if Noah will ring him back, or…
His phone buzzes. It's just a text.
Noah W.
Pls call me back
Chest tightening, Gerran rubs at the space between his brows with a finger. His eyes trail upward to some of the older texts. Since that text the day of the interview with the Daily Beast, there’ve only been two other exchanges—one where Gerran's forwarded a different article, the other with Noah checking in again if Gerran would be attending PaleyFest.
He texts first. Was away from my phone, everything good?
Barely sending the text and reading it over, the phone buzzes again with an incoming call. Gerran accepts it after a moment.
“What hotel are you all at?” says Noah immediately.
“Oh,” says Gerran. “Er… the Hyatt… I think. Hollywood Hills.” He can hear Noah shift his car into drive. “Did something happen?”
“Are you hungry?”
He blinks. “You're joking, right? We just had dinner.”
“Let’s get some milkshakes.”
“Noah,” says Gerran firmly. “Hey, you're freaking me out a little bit. What's going on?”
“Nothing's wrong.” His voice has gone a bit high, too casual. “I just remembered you leave tomorrow after PaleyFest. That's all.”
There's a peculiar piece of patterned art hanging on the hallway across from the lifts as he comes to stand in front of it. Gerran finds himself staring at the black strokes infused with even smaller patterns in the negative space. “That's true,” says Gerran slowly.
“I'll be there in twenty,” says Noah, most likely driving from near the steakhouse they were at earlier.
“You're crazy,” says Gerran. His heart is racing. His trepidation from dinner is very quickly vanishing. Noah sounds so insistent that he can't keep up. “Besides, they'll melt by the time you get here.”
“What? No, I'm coming to pick you up. We’ll go together.”
“Go where?”
“Milkshakes,” says Noah. “You know, you have to pay a little more attention.”
“Ohhhhkay, Mister Wyle,” Gerran says. “You're officially losing it. Where are we going for shakes?”
There's a delighted little giggle on the other end of the line. Gerran grows warm and he's got a silly grin on his face again. This is beyond stupid, whatever is happening, but that day last month with the interview online left him almost sick. It occurs to Gerran somewhere in the back of his head that he will likely stay disappointed. But at this point, it doesn't even matter to him anymore.
Noah doesn't hang up. He pulls up just outside of the hotel valet and puts on his blinkers. Gerran, still on the phone, walks up quickly and pulls open the door to see Noah in the driver's seat. Only then does Noah hang up the phone.
The sound of the call ending echoes in the car. He climbs in, noting they're still wearing their outfits from dinner.
“Shakes,” says Noah, tapping the wheel with his fingers. “Shakes, shakes, shakes.”
“You really need to get a grip,” says Gerran, buckling in. “I was getting worried, but you're just acting up like a schoolboy.” He laughs when Noah just taps the wheel more.
Noah hums. “Just happy to see you.”
Gerran smiles to himself. He lets his eyes graze over Noah’s hair, groomed beard, his profile. “What changed?” he asks. It comes out softer than he intends.
“Changed? From when, dinner?”
“From last month,” says Gerran. His phone's starting to buzz again with the others asking him to come back, so he sends a sleeping emoji before ignoring Shabana’s typed cries of outrage and stuffing his phone away.
They're apparently driving to In-N-Out.
“Nothing’s changed,” says Noah, like he's trying to convince himself of that. “I just want to make sure we're good.” He glances at Gerran before looking back at the road. At eleven at night, there isn't much traffic, but nothing is certain with LA.
“Okay. We're good.” Clearly Noah's working through some sort of crisis. It's worse for him, Gerran knows that. And maybe spending time like this is enabling him, but Gerran’ll take whatever he can get, even if it's just milkshakes and something unspoken. “We both know I'm only here for the free food,” he adds.
Noah glances at him again, his expression so warm that Gerran knows his own cheeks are growing pink. “Don't look at me like that,” he says, and he covers his face in his hands.
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
He feels a hand wrap around his wrist. “Don't be all shy while I'm driving,” says Noah, eyes still on the road. His cheeks are still crinkled with the weight of his smile, and his hand lingers for a moment before going back to the wheel.
Gerran sits back, leans his head on the window, and the ride is quiet.
Both of them randomly pick strawberry flavored shakes while waiting in the endless Drive Thru line after neither of them were able to make up their minds. Shakes acquired, Noah drives to a nearby shopping center with a massive carpark and they settle into a spot near the back.
“It's good,” says Gerran, already sipping on the shake. “Even though I wasn't hungry.”
“There's always a second stomach for sweets.” Noah digs into his shake like it's the best thing he's spent his money on all week. “Cheers.”
Gerran snorts, bumping his styrofoam cup against Noah's. He toes off his shoes, pushes his seat back and props his feet up on the dash. Thankfully his socks keep his toes from feeling the cool glass of the windshield.
“I read that article,” says Noah. “The one we did together.”
Right. It's out now. Gerran's seen it floating around but hasn't gotten around to reading it. “Any good?”
Noah nods slowly. “Yeah. Well, it's just another article. But she noticed your earring.”
“That's funny. She called it out?”
“Just in passing.”
Unconsciously, he reaches up to mess with it. Noah follows his hand. “Oh,” he says with surprise. “I didn't think you'd keep it on that long today.”
“I like how it looks,” admits Gerran. “It's definitely starting to hurt, though.”
“You can take it off, you know,” says Noah. Before Gerran can say anything, Noah puts his shake in the cupholder and reaches the center console to turn Gerran's face toward him.
“Noah,” says Gerran quietly.
“Sorry.” His fingers touch on the earring. He pulls it apart to loosen its hold and slides it off, before he touches at what Gerran knows is his reddened earlobe. “Ouch.” And then it's over and he's leaning back.
“Warn a guy first,” says Gerran.
Noah looks apologetic. He drops the earring into Gerran's hand. “I don't know what all this is,” he says, picking up his shake again. “After we had that Zoom call I felt awful.”
“I did too, you know.”
Sighing, Noah mixes his shake with the straw a bit, trying to loosen the extra stiff bits. Gerran just keeps sipping, even if nothing moves. Finally, Noah says, “I swear these shakes weren't always this hard to drink.”
“Use a spoon,” says Gerran.
“Did they come with spoons?”
“They're in the cupholder.”
Noah cocks his head at him as Gerran starts sipping again. “Don't you want one?”
“Too lazy to take off the lid,” says Gerran, mouth still around the straw.
“Take the damn spoon,” says Noah, and Gerran laughs, head hitting the headrest behind him. Noah's laughing too, a high-pitched noise that makes Gerran immensely happy he decided to come out.
They don't really talk about it.
Somehow, they seem like they're going to persist in this eternal limbo of trust, want, something—but they shouldn't. Gerran knows it's bigger than him. It's enough that there's space somewhere in Noah's life for him to nestle in, loved and untouched. With fond smiles and quiet drives and shakes that are too hard to drink.
There's a pit in Gerran's stomach, of course, but it won't ever go away, and he thinks if it ever does go away, then something's wrong. He's not the one who met Noah first, and if he had been, something would've been terribly wrong, worse than now. So he can contend with this lot he's been given.
The drive back to the hotel feels shorter than it is. Noah's talking about a collection of vintage books he picked up on watch-making. It's well past midnight now and they have to be up fairly early, but he doesn't think he'll have any issues sleeping. His phone's long gone silent; everyone probably thinks he really did go to bed.
Pulling up to the hotel, Noah parks on the side to avoid driving up to the valet. “Sorry for keeping you out so late. And sorry if I kept you from anything the others wanted to do.”
“You saved me from drinking corner shop champagne tonight,” says Gerran. He puts his hand on the door handle, then hesitates. “You… you don't want to come up, do you?”
He watches five different emotions fly by on Noah's face. “I'd love to,” he admits, “but I'm not going to.”
“I thought so.”
He basks for the briefest moment under Noah’s look. “Thanks for today,” Gerran murmurs. He lets go of the door handle, reaches toward Noah to tuck his head under the other man's chin. “Seriously.”
One of Noah's warm hands strokes through Gerran's curls. He doesn't say anything. There's a small press of lips on the crown of his head, and something burns in Gerran's eyes.
He's okay with this. He has to be.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” he manages, pulling away. He inclines his head, spots Noah looking at him with something he can't place.
“Okay,” says Noah, quiet, but still with that little smile. “Sleep well.”
Gerran opens the door, escapes the car with a firm close behind him. He hurries away before his body changes its mind.
He's only just gotten to the hotel lobby when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out along with his room key as he nears the lifts.
Noah W.
🥤
Gerran smiles—but then it crumples, and suddenly it's all too much. He takes the lift up and has to keep his hands from shaking as he swipes into his room. Eyes wet, he drops the key card on the desk and collapses on his bed, just barely managing to set his alarm for the next morning.
I'm okay with this, he thinks, even when he's leaving tear tracks on his pillow. I have to be.
He heart-reacts to the message, puts the earring in his pocket away with his toiletries, relives the way Noah drew his arm closer around him to kiss his head.
Gerran's okay. He's okay. He has to be okay.