Chapter Text
July 14th, 2022. Television Centre, White City.
The last time he saw Richard was San Diego in July of 2019. Richard told him he didn’t know when they would see each other again—and that he was sad about it. They were standing in the doorway of Richard’s hotel room, and Richard had no shirt on, and Taron was backing away into the corridor, looking around, knot in his throat, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
“Bye, then. Hopefully see you in Antibes.” At that EJAF event. That Richard never showed up for.
“Yeah, yeah, hopefully,” Richard smiled and lied, pulling him into one last, fleeting kiss.
Taron wanted to tell him he loved him, then. He didn’t. Even if he was pretty sure he had, the night before. Couldn’t really remember.
Hollywood-heavy head hazy with hooch, and that harassing hunger he had, the humid heat of Richard’s mouth hailing him—humming harmonies, hill-high, howling, hot, hacked, happy.
He didn’t, but he somehow knew he had. He didn’t, but he wished he did. Maybe it would have changed something.
Except—
No, no, that isn’t right. He’s misremembering.
The last time he saw Richard was London in September of 2019 at the GQ awards. Voluptuous velvet, shiny shoes, glitzy and glamorous, preening and proper. That deer-in-headlights look Richard gave the photographer when he realised they were being cornered just as he was leaning in for a peck on Taron’s cheek. That adroit, media-trained, composed expression he flipped to immediately after, when the guy snapped another pic.
No time to talk after that, both gallivanting around with heavy awards in hand, trying their best to look the part. In particular, in Taron’s case, trying not to talk about him too much. And failing, obviously. Who’s your man of the year, they asked him. “Richard Madden has been a big man for me this year,” he replied. Who are you looking forward to seeing tonight? “It’s lovely to see my friend Richard Madden.” And he heard it as he said it, and he saw the interviewer’s eyes gleaming, and she smirked, and she asked if they’d be celebrating later. “Perhaps,” he said. Perhaps, yeah.
Perhaps.
A silent taxi ride, antsy to get handsy, fumbling with keys, two very expensive tux jackets carelessly cast-off on cream carpet.
Perhaps.
Glass shower walls, soap that smelled like an evening in May, tile marks on his knees, an ache in his jaw—rugged, raspy groans, bitter taste in his mouth.
Perhaps.
Long, slick fingers curled just right, keening, begging, nodding, receiving, damp sheets and feather-light hearts, soaring like a bird, claiming his prey.
Perhaps.
He stares at his phone screen, now, tapping it every few seconds to prevent it from going dark. It’s past 11 PM on a Tuesday. He’s sitting in the kitchen with a half-empty can of Saturday Lager—drinking exclusively on the weekend be damned—and a hole in his stomach.
The blue light from the screen hurts his eyes. And it echoes the other blue light in here, the one from that neon sign someone once offhandedly suggested he should steal and put right where it is now. Someone from whose lips Taron was hanging. Someone whom he hasn’t seen in nearly three years. Someone who’s just fucking texted him for the first time in more than twelve months.
Hey, T, long time no speak. How’re you doing? x
Taron’s mouth is very dry, so he takes another gulp of lager. It’s cold, but not as cold as he’d want it to be. He shouldn’t even be drinking it, really. He should be popping a pill and going the fuck to bed. Got to be up early-ish, tomorrow morning, to record a podcast. Because that’s who he is, now, apparently: someone who goes on podcasts. And because of that very reason he’s supposed to be between the sheets, preparing an articulate speech about Mam’s lamb madras and how much he loves mayonnaise on pizza—and not on a kitchen stool, clutching a can of beer, and staring at an unexpected text bubble. Wondering what he should reply. Or, actually, if he should reply at all.
He presses the side of the can against his forehead, trying to cool down. They didn’t happen, he and Richard. They just didn’t happen. And there are a few reasons why they didn’t happen. And he’s perfectly aware with whom the fault lies.
In 2018, he could physically feel where it lay, because it was deep within him. That soul-wrenching fear resurfacing after fourteen years that maybe, just maybe, he might not be that straight after all—no matter how many times he said that on the radio. Cowardice, really. He was wearing that earring and letting Richard get him off one night, then crying about it the next. He was letting Richard in, then shutting him out. Until he pushed it too far, and Richard left. He left, and he went to LA, and he found himself a live-in one. Close, convenient, and relatively drama-free—if one doesn’t count the entire Sam Smith album that was written about the whole thing two years later. (Which very few people tend to do, but it still is supremely entertaining to think about, sometimes.) And Taron had a wee cry about it, spent Christmas and New Year’s in utter misery. When he felt like he had to get back on his feet, he did it the only way he knew how to: he took out the earring, grew the hair back, and unblocked Emily on WhatsApp. Jesus.
In 2019, however, it definitely lay with Richard. Richard was the one who started it all again. When they ran into each other in New York City, in that hotel lobby. Caught in the rain. Then at that deli, dancing around with a doughnut speared through the end of his umbrella. At Junior’s, sharing that cheesecake.
And then there was the following night. The night he casually ruined the Ferragamo trousers on the floor of a restroom at the Metropolitan Museum, and got papped stepping out and looking like an absolute fucking wreck.
Cannes, next. The night he cried and laughed and sang with Elton on the beach and drank champagne with Joe Russo and rented a whole fucking yacht and had to pick up shirt buttons off the floor of his room at the Carlton the next morning, before the press conference. He remembers walking to the bathroom, turning to look at Richard, still naked, still asleep between his sheets, and thinking how wrong it all was, but also how right it all felt. He remembers the quiet amusement in Dex’s eyes when he actually caught them stepping out of the same damned room together, too tired, too hungover, too cried and fucked out to even think of staggering their exits.
San Diego, London, Eternals, Rocketman press tour, nominations but no awards—aside from that one rather heavy statuette Chris Evans handed him, that one time. Alongside his number. Richard was in Fuerteventura, and Taron was drinking bourbon with Captain America in the Hollywood Hills. Then, Richard was in London, and Taron was getting hammered with Cynthia Erivo and Florence Pugh in Santa Barbara. And then, suddenly, Richard was fucking someone new in LA, and Taron was breathing in the salty sea air of West Wales and coming to terms with the fact that his relationship with Emily was well and truly over.
Twenty-fucking-twenty, though. That one wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. That was just the world falling apart. But also—Richard just fucking disappeared. Fell off the face of the earth. Not even Taron’s wildest nights with Joe Russo would ever have owed him the right to reach out and inquire if he and Anthony had abducted him, or if they were actually shooting that fucking show. Or maybe it was the boyfriend of it all? Taron knows absolutely fuck all about the guy, aside from the fact that he’s way too young, way too pretty, and that he was obviously introduced to the parentals and Richard’s entire inner circle. (He knows that, because that’s what Richard did with him, once upon a time. It’s what Richard does with everyone he dates. Jack put two and two together for Taron, once, and it blew his fucking mind.) Oh, and that he seems perfectly happy to live as Richard’s little secret. And that he seems to be tethering Richard to the States. Out of sight, out of mind. And all that.
It’s unfortunate, he thinks, just coordinates. He really likes that line. He should ask Elton to send Harry a fruit basket on his behalf, for that one.
He’s dissociating slightly, he realises—pondering something as far-fetched as personally thanking Harry Styles for a song he wrote really is him bordering on delirious. But he needs the distraction, until he can force himself to type out a reply. Or, you know. Ignore the text, and finally go the fuck to bed.
He almost has a heart attack when his phone buzzes again, the dead screen flashing bright again. A gorgeous photo of his Mam, and another text from Richard. He truly can’t tap on it quickly enough.
Watched two episodes of Black Bird last night—fantastic job, mate. So proud xx
Taron picks the phone up, locks it, and clutches it so tightly his hand starts hurting. He brings the side of it to his lips, lets the corner tap against his clenched front teeth. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Richard’s texting him and ending his messages with kisses. As if. As if it hadn’t been an age, and as if it was all normal again. He glances at the ceiling and sees a spider web in the corner.
“Fuck me,” he says, out loud, before discarding the phone onto the counter and downing the remainders of his beer. He gets up and walks to the fridge, where the three more cans he’s just put in are. He pops another one open, picks the phone back up, turns the bloody sign off, and collapses on the couch. Right, then.
To be sure, he checks when the last text he got from Richard was. He finds it to be a rather emotionless Thanks mate!! from when Taron last wished him a happy birthday, back in June of 2021. It is now July 14, 2022.
Didn’t even wish me a happy birthday, arsehole, he types out. Pauses, glances down at the screen, shakes his head. Backspaces. Fine. Fine.
Long time indeed. Thanks mate!! And that he does send, because it’s no secret that he is a petty bitch. Immediately, dots start dancing underneath his message, and another text from Richard appears.
Oh you’re up, thought you’d gone to bed already. Hi x
“Can we fucking stop with the fucking kisses, seriously,” he mumbles, halfway into the can, while taking another gulp of beer. When have you ever known me to be in bed before midnight, he replies, and the familiarity of it kind of hurts—but it’s also kind of nice.
Fair enough, I’m sorry
Slipped my mind
Wonder why, which he sends without thinking twice.
Oh?
Three years
You dick
He’s not even remotely drunk enough for this kind of talk, he reckons. And yet. Still, it is time for something stronger. A nice vodka soda, perhaps. Also better for the waistline.
He gets up again, kitchen-bound, eyes glued on the screen. Richard has just sent an out-of-character emoji—the facepalm one. Richard never uses emojis while texting, not if he can help it. Maybe going out with barely legal Zoomer types has awoken him to a whole new realm of possibilities.
I know. I’m really sorry…
Ellipses are very uncharacteristic, too. Hm.
Eh, it is what it is, innit, which is a complete fucking lie and also potentially vanifies two odd years of therapy, but. Eh. It sure is what it is, at the end of the day. And then he also writes Happy belated birthday, because he is a petty bitch.
You in London, then?
Thanks x
And yes I am, actually. For a few days still, then off to Italy for a work thing
The first sip of fizzy soda mixed with one shot too many of vodka awakens Taron’s soul, as well as his palate.
Busy busy busy, eh?
Quite alright, actually. Just a film festival thingy
Getting an award, would you believe
Taron chuckles, tongue teasing the stainless steel straw he’s sucking from.
I would not
Yeah, you know, fair enough
Where?
Near Salerno
Nice. Making a weekend of it?
Yeah, think so
Well, you know what? He pauses, thinks for a beat, then continues typing. Before you leave, want to grab a drink? His heart is in his throat, there are butterflies in his stomach, but his head is pleasantly light. Send.
The Troubadour sign is back on, and he stares at that instead of the moving dots on his phone screen. Immediately, has a flash of memory—Richard kissing him under that lit up neon sign on set, hands pinned above his head. He kind of wants to repeatedly bang his head against the wall, however many times it takes for him to erase that particular one completely.
I was actually about to ask you the same thing. Where?
Soho House? Because it’s the first place that comes to mind. And it’s just two shakes from home—and a bit of a trek for Richard. Make him work for it.
Yeah!! Dean St?
Taron grins wickedly. Bites his lip.
That’s adorable
Come to me this time, you know where I bloody live
You’re so fucking lazy xx
Guilty as charged
Also you owe me one xxx
The kisses feel like ribbing, but also like falling into old, rather comfortable patterns. Which, fuck. There isn’t enough vodka in the world to excuse any of that, really. He fleetingly but quite clearly proceeds to picture Jack, his therapist, and his Mam’s disapproving expressions (in no particular order). Come on, Taron.
And yet.
Arse
Dick
That is indeed my name
You didn’t let me finish!
Dick…head xx
Piss off
You first
When?
Right now, if you don’t mind
I meant when do you want me to drive all the way to White City for you, you incredible fucking bampot
Ah, yeah, that
Slipped my mind
Moron
Fine, fine, tomorrow? 6 ish?
You’re in luck, I have an opening
Really Madden, piss the hell off
I will, and I will also see you tomorrow
Let’s see if I show up x
If not, I know where you bloody live
God damn
Now go to bed, T xx
Yeah yeah, good night x
He doesn’t really sleep.
*
July 15th, 2022. Television Centre, White City.
It’s late, although he’s not sure how late. He’s running around with a comb in his hands and no socks on his feet, and, despite going through four different outfit changes, he’s still not one hundred percent convinced that the Cucinelli knit polo shirt/beige chinos combo he’s picked out is actually the right choice for the occasion. Might sweat through the whole thing. Consequently, might stink. God, he probably stinks already, doesn’t he. He lifts the shirt slightly and sniffs his armpit. He’s fine, but he feels sticky. Should he shower again?
“God save me—Alexa, what the fuck time is it?” he manically shouts at the innocuous-looking evil white sphere on his nightstand.
Thankfully, she is fairly used to him swearing at her, so she picks up the question fairly easily. “The time is 5:48 PM. Have a good evening!”
“Fuuuck me, yeah thanks. Fuck, come on Taron, focus,” he tells his own reflection in the full length mirror. He looks… Well, he looks alright, to be quite honest. He doesn’t have time for another shower, but he also doesn’t really need one. The only thing he would say is that he looks the mathematical polar opposite of well-rested—but Richard can take the blame for that. He showed up at the Off Menu recording with a face like a bag of spanners. James and Ed were gracious enough not to pass comment on that, but he knew everyone was thinking it. Anyway, no time to do anything about that now. He looks at himself from different angles (his therapist calls that ‘body checking’ but he thinks that’s a load of shit) to check that everything’s in order. He’s pleased to notice no dodgy stains on his trousers, no loose threads, the fabric bulging and clinging to the right places, and his bum still looking mighty fine.
Just as he’s finally catching his own gaze and smiling, he almost has a heart attack when Alexa pipes up again, with a little notification jingle.
“Jeeeeesus fuck. What?” he asks, to the empty room.
“You have an appointment in ten minutes. ‘Drinks with Richard’.”
“Yeah no fucking shit I fucking do! Have you seen the state of me?”
“I’m sorry. That function isn’t available yet. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Ughhh,” he groans. “No, just kindly shut the fuck up, Alexa. Thanks.”
“No problem!” the weird robot pipes back up, before finally going quiet.
Taron shakes his head and turns to look at himself in the mirror one last time. “Okay, then. Here we go.”
*
Twelve minutes later. White City House.
You’re late, he texts Richard, at 6:02.
And you’re so dramatic
Just parked, I am but minutes away
Still late x
Shut up. Where are you sitting?
Poolside
Classy bitch
Get me a vodka soda, will ya? x
Get it yourself xxx
Wanker x
“Why are we eeeeven teeeexting,” he says, in a feeble sing-song voice, the melody matching the Smiths song in his ears. Yes, he is wearing earphones, because he is too damn nervous. If he has to interact with anyone other than the waiting staff and Richard tonight he is sure to blow a fuse.
He absentmindedly runs the tip of his middle finger over the side of his pint glass, playing with a droplet of condensation that he catches as it’s trickling down. It’s a rather meditative sensory experience and he gets lost in it, enjoying not thinking of anxiety-producing things for a while—until, of course, he clocks Richard in the distance, walking towards him. An imposing mass of a man, clad in black denim and a black T-shirt, wearing black trainers and black Aviators. His damned uniform.
He pretends not to acknowledge Richard for a beat, eyes still fixed on the tiny bubbles racing to the surface of his pint of lager, then flickering to his own clothes and the very summery, very light colour palette he’s sporting: off-white and beige, white leather trainers with a pop of orange. Light and dark, they are, the two of them.
Still not looking at Richard, he showily picks his AirPods out of his ears and places them back in the case. Then, he runs a hand through his hair and subtly flexes his bicep. Only then does he deign to meet Richard’s gaze.
“Penny for yer thoughts?” Richard asks, smiling down at him.
“You’ll have to give me more than a penny for those, mate.” He sees Richard angling for some physical contact, so he obliges. He gets up, takes a couple of steps, and naturally, so naturally, too naturally allows himself to be hugged. The sensation overload is immediately all-consuming and he feels like kicking himself in the nuts because he wants to fucking cry. Richard feels sturdier, bigger, and somehow taller, but that isn’t the reason why he’s getting emotional. It’s the scent of Richard’s skin, more than anything else: as a smell-activated person, that’s what does it for him. The memories—all good, all bad, all bittersweet—come through in a rush, bursting through the broken dam of his heart.
The hug only lasts for a few seconds that feel a lot longer, but as soon as they part and Richard takes a step back, hands still on Taron’s shoulders and a grin on his face, Taron is already panicking that he might look absolutely wrecked.
“Look at you,” Richard says, simply.
Come on, Taron. Turn the charm back on. You can do it IRL, too—not just via text. “Nah, look at you. You made an effort and everything,” he teases.
Richard chuckles. “What, this old thing? I’ve got a closet chock-full of ‘em.” Which is funny, because it’s fucking true. Taron’s looked through it once or twice over the years, and the only pops of colour he’s ever seen in there are a Stella McCartney tracksuit from a GQ shoot they once did together, and the Honky Cat kimono that Dex teased him endlessly for loving so much. The fact that the world still seems to have doubts on whether the man is queer truly and utterly baffles Taron, sometimes.
“You’re basically the sultry, Scottish, emo kid version of Donald Duck. Oh, wait, I’ve got it: you’re the Duck Avenger. You’re a superhero, lest we forget.”
“Oh, do shut up.”
“Hey, be nice to me,” Taron says, fake-pouty, as they sit down. He catches the eye of a passing waiter, who nods back at him, be right with you.
“I’m always nice to you.”
“No, you’re not,” Taron replies, then turns to face the approaching waiter. “Hi, Matt, how are ya?”
Matt, a thirtysomething and devilishly handsome ginger Irishman with the bluest eyes Taron’s ever seen—yes, even bluer than Richard’s—smiles down at him. “Hi, Taron. Good to see you. And good evening, sir,” he then says to Richard. “What can I get ya?”
“Good evening. A vodka soda, please, mate.”
“Coming right up. Any preferences for the vodka?”
“Make it Grey Goose,” Taron replies for him, picking up his pint glass and taking a swig from it. Richard nods approvingly, pleased but not surprised. “And please get me one as well, will you, darling?” He winks, Matt smirks, and Richard cocks an eyebrow.
“Darling?” Richard inquires, as soon as Matt is gone, a quizzical half-smile on his face.
“Hmm?” Taron replies, nonchalantly, fingering the side of his glass.
“When have you gotten so… camp?”
“Gosh, Dickie. It really has been three years, hasn’t it.” Knife in the wound. Dickie.
And Richard must feel it, because he actually flinches. He still hasn’t taken off his shades, but Taron can still somehow perceive the flash of guilt in his eyes. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve always been like this. You’ve just… forgotten.”
Richard finally takes the bloody Ray Bans off and scooches closer with his chair, resting his forearms on the table. Hands together, slightly clenched, veins popping. Assertive. “I haven’t, though. This is different. This,” he says, gesturing at Taron, “is more… Well, it’s more you, I suppose. Just haven’t ever known the real you to pop out this much while in public, is all.”
That kind of feels like a punch in the gut, but Taron has to take it. It was a conscious choice, after all. New year, new him, queer play in the West End, gay co-star, dropping the whole ‘I’m straight’ pretense. Using words like butch and keeping it all fairly gender neutral when he talks about potential love interests and life companions. He opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out.
“I like it, by the way,” Richard kindly provides. “Suits you.”
“Right. Thanks,” Taron replies, dumbfounded and already overwhelmed.
A thick silence falls, but it’s mercifully brief, because Matt is back with their drinks and a small plate of cheese and charcuterie and a bread basket in no time at all. They didn’t order food, and Taron knows Richard’s probably not going to touch any of it, but that’s just how it sometimes goes in this joint. The chef sending small treats to habitués. It’s cool. Keeps him coming back.
“Cheers, mate,” Richard says, smiling politely.
“Enjoy, fellas,” Matt replies, before bowing his head and scuttling off.
And here’s that silence again, awkward and uncomfortable, only broken by the slow rattling of ice cubes in Richard’s glass while he swirls the straw through his drink. He doesn’t sip on it, though—just stares at Taron, and the way he does so indicates that he would very much like not to be staring. Finally, he raises his forearms, elbows on the table, and joins his palms in front of his mouth as if in prayer. Takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second.
“Taron.”
Taron feels every muscle fibre inside him tensing. “Richard.”
“I truly am so fucking sorry.”
“Oh, you—”
“No, please,” Richard interrupts him before he can go down the familiar route of dismissal. “May I?”
“Course. Sorry.” He closes a hand around the tall, thin glass containing his own drink and pulls it closer.
“Don’t be. I just wanted to say this, because I’ve been thinking about it for months. I just didn’t know how or when or if you would even be interested in hearing any of it.” He pauses, Taron nods. “I am sorry, and you’re right, honestly: I was a dickhead. Ghosting you like that. I think Marvel went to my head. Which I’m told is a thing that happens, but it doesn’t actually excuse any of it.”
“Certainly surprising that it happened to you. I’ve never known you to have an ego.”
“It’s like a siren song, I think. And I had no earplugs nor rope.”
Taron raises an eyebrow. “So bookish of you,” he teases, but he doesn’t actually feel like being sassy. This kind of earnestness is too good and too rare to just shatter it with a few bitchy quips. “But I do get it. To an extent.”
“I suspect you’ll fully get it soon—heard from Feige lately?”
“No, and I frankly hope I never do.” Taron rolls his eyes. His least favourite topic of conversation cropping up during a heart to heart with his most significant ex. Of fucking course.
Richard raises his hands. “Fair enough, sorry, just… I’m going off-track here, aren’t I.”
“Kind of.”
“Yeah. Well, long story short, I don’t know what I was thinking. Possibly that I was Leonardo DiCaprio, or some adjacent bullshit. But I promise I have come to my senses.” He gives Taron a guilty smile.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I have.”
“No more topless Victoria’s Secret models taking turns blowing you on a yacht deck, then?”
“Taron,” Richard admonishes him, though still looking quite meek.
“I’m sorry, were you alluding to anything else?”
Richard sighs and finally does take a sip of his drink. Then, he buries his face in his hands. “I promise I have stopped,” he says, his voice muffled behind his palms.
“Stopped doing what, pray tell?” He’s going to bloody drag it out of Richard. If it’s the last thing he does.
“Fucking fine. I have stopped podding with idiot pretty boys, I swear.”
Taron grins, takes his sunglasses off, and relishes in the clanging of the acetate hitting the metal table. “There he is.”
“Listen.”
“So fucking young, Dickie.”
“I know.”
“Was he good, at least?” Taron asks, lips wrapping around his straw, cheeks deliberately hollowing as he sucks on it. He believes this is called ‘defusing the tension’. And Richard picks up on it, clearly, because his face almost completely relaxes. Soon, he’s smiling again.
“Do you really want to know that?”
Taron looks to the sky, fake-pensive, then back at Richard. “Alright, fair enough. I really, really fuckin’ don’t.”
“Yeah, see. This hasn’t changed, has it?”
“What hasn’t changed?”
“Me, always calling your bluff.”
“Oh don’t flatter yourself, Madden.”
“I’m not flattering myself. You’ve just always been rather transparent to me, is all.”
“Reeeally.” Taron shifts in his chair, slightly tugging on the front of his shirt to let some air through. He is sweating after all. “Let’s see, then. What am I thinking now?”
“Hmm, let’s see.” Richard leans in closer, bum slightly lifting from his chair as he scrutinises Taron’s face. He gets so close for a second that Taron catches a whiff of his delicate cologne—which most definitely is not Calvin Klein’s Defy. Richard sits back down, then, seemingly satisfied. “Yeah. You’re thinking that I haven’t actually changed one bit and that I’m the same old sleaze I’ve always been. And now that you know I’m single, and since I know you’re single too, you think I’m here just because I want to fuck.”
“When has ‘being single’ ever been a conditio sine qua non?”
Richard looks taken aback for a second, then concedes. “Fucking touché I guess.” He exhales hard. “Jesus, Taron. Ouch.”
Taron just shrugs, merciless. “Hey, we’re in the same boat, remember? Misery loves company, and all that shit.”
“I suppose so. But am I right?”
“About me thinking you just called me to hook up? It has crossed my mind, I won’t lie.”
“See?”
“And you’re telling me you’ve changed, and that this is just ‘mates being bros’ having a drink,” he deadpans, curling his index and middle fingers into air quotes.
“Aye,” Richard nods. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Hmm, sure. Three minutes from my flat.”
“To be fair, you’ve suggested we meet here. Maybe you’re the one with the agenda.”
Taron assumes a how dare you expression, hand coming to his sternum, clutching invisible pearls. “You texted me, Dickie.”
“And you asked me out, duck.”
“Duck?” Taron asks, in a voice a lot smaller than he had intended to let out.
“Dickie?” Richard rightfully challenges.
“Christ, this is already dysfunctional. Great.”
“I know, what the fuck.” Richard shakes his head. “Missed you, though. Really.”
“Yeah,” Taron acquiesces. “Yeah. I’ve missed you too.”
Richard takes a long sip of his drink, then leans back in his chair. Taron can tell his legs are spread, and that makes him feel some kind of way. “So. Want to keep arguing about whether I’m trying to get in your pants?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Great, me neither. I promise I’m not.”
“You’re promising a lot of things tonight, Dickie. Careful.”
“Yeah, well. I am trying.”
“Curiously, I’m inclined to believe you,” Taron says, knowing full well how much of a field day his therapist is going to have when he tells her about this entire conversation.
“So gracious of you. What d’you want to talk about, then?”
“May I be uber boring and say work? Yours though, not mine—if I have to talk about Jimmy bloody Keene for another second I swear I will get a rash all over my back.”
“Oh, God, no,” Richard says, a pained expression on his face. “Please, don’t get me started on that whole thing. You know what: I’m vetoing any work talk. If I may.”
“I’ll allow it. So. Any new music in your life? Been to Glasto this year?”
“Yeah, this. This is much better, thanks.”
“Perfect.”