Chapter Twenty-Two #3
But what has that got him? Sure, it’s not changed things with his parents because they’ve always been somewhat arm’s length, but pleasant, about it.
It does mean he sees his friends only in between shoots, when usually someone will chastise him for not texting back, or there’ll have been a huge piece of news that he’s missed in the interim – admittedly because of the not-texting-back issue – that he has to roll with on the spot.
It makes him an outsider in his own life.
If he’s honest, that’s not enough.
That’s only part of why he wants a career change, but it’s a big part of it. What could his life and relationships be like if he was more present? If he had time for people. If he wasn’t afraid of committing to someone . . .
That’s a whole other problem in itself, though. What he and Christopher have is probably the most emotionally intimate thing that wasn’t built on a pre-existing friendship that he’s had with someone in, well, years.
But this is just blowing off steam, right? That’s clearly what they’re both doing here. It’s not as if they like each other in that way. It’s fine. They’ll have a nice time together, unite Christopher’s community for Christmas, and then he’ll go home. That’s all this is.
He’s not ready to examine why exactly that makes his stomach ache a little, but it’s probably just hunger.
Finally, as he turns to place the plates on the tiny kitchen table, Christopher notices him. And smiles. It’s a soft, small smile that feels reserved just for him. The kind Christopher is trying to keep for himself.
God, he’s getting too sentimental this Christmas.
‘Thanks for this. My agent just wanted to wish me happy holidays.’
They both squeeze in round the kitchen table and eat in exhausted but companionable silence.
‘Are you going to assemble the gingerbread house tonight?’
Christopher glances up at the clock on the wall that Nash is pretty sure has never worked. ‘What time is it?’
‘About nine.’
He groans. ‘Apparently not.’
‘There’s still time. You guys have Christmas for longer, right? The whole Boxing Day thing?’
‘Yeah. I guess you’re right.’
‘Plus,’ he says, pushing his empty plate away. ‘I was thinking we could do something a little more fun this evening.’
‘What’s more fun than assembling a gingerbread house?’ Christopher snorts, and then looks up, clocking Nash’s hungry look. ‘Oh.’
They lose all their clothes on the way to bed, kissing as they go.
Their desire for each other is less furious tonight, probably because they’re so tired, and under Christopher’s gentle touch, Nash comes quickly, as though Christopher’s been doing just that to him for years.
Nash takes his time with Christopher, stroking him gently with his hands so that they can keep kissing.
Nash thinks that he could never get tired of kissing Christopher.
It’s only in the quiet when his lips are bruised from kissing that he feels some small part of himself come undone. Is this . . . relaxing? It’s not something he’s felt for a long time.
Christopher rolls over and fixes him with those big baby blues. ‘If you want to talk about work things, I’m happy to be an ear. Especially now, you know, we’re not pretending I don’t know who you are any more.’
Nash snorts a laugh. ‘Now that you are no longer pretending, you mean.’
‘Well. Yes.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll want to hear it, Superfan. You’ve no idea what you’re asking.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No, it’s . . . long and complicated and probably really dull.’
‘Nash, of all the things I could call you, dull is hardly one of them.’
‘The situation is dull.’
‘Okay, but it matters to you?’
Nash lets Christopher’s words hang in the air. After all, what is the risk of talking this through with him? It’s not as if he’s connected to the industry, and from Nash’s limited snooping, Christopher’s social media seems to be confined to taking photos of things he’s baked. He’s hardly DeuxMoi.
‘So, the acting thing. I might be . . . done.’
He can tell Christopher is trying to squash all his shock. What Nash is pretty sure was a gasp quickly turns to a yawn.
‘Done? With acting?’ Christopher asks, trying to look casual. ‘But what about the last Christmas at the Clinic film?’
‘See, this is why I didn’t want to talk about it with you. You sound like I just told you Santa isn’t real.’
‘He isn’t!?’ Christopher smirks, and Nash rolls his eyes.
‘Very funny.’
‘I can be, on occasion. But I’ll restrain myself.’ Christopher is doing that earnest look now that makes Nash want to tell him everything. It’s . . . disarming. He must never let Christopher know how powerful it is.
‘It’s just . . . it’s a weird thing living your dream when it’s just not your dream any more. Getting scouted for Parental Units was unimaginably cool when I was just this dorky little kid making my transition progress videos on YouTube. Like, yeah I’d always been a bit of a theatre kid.’
‘No. You, a diva? A drama queen? I’m shocked.’
‘Yes, very funny, I’ve never heard that one before.’
Christopher squeezes his arm. ‘Sorry. Keep going.’
‘Anyway, I loved that, although going through puberty on television and being a teenager in the public eye are two experiences I, on the whole, would not recommend to anyone.’
‘And then the Christmas films happened?’
‘Eventually. It took a while but, yeah, I kind of fell into that. It was Barbie who kicked my career off. I kind of rode her coat tails for a while.’
‘You were known already,’ Christopher disagrees.
‘Yeah, but it’s not the same. She was Instagram famous in 2014. Do you remember what that . . .’ He trails off. ‘No, I imagine you won’t.’
‘Harsh.’
Nash furrows his brows, because he has looked up Christopher’s Instagram account, and scrolled quite far back, past the baking content of last year to a whole load of nothing beyond a few fake-coupley photos with Haf. ‘Accurate?’
‘Yes. Fine. But you like acting, don’t you?’
Nash leans back and sighs. ‘I do. I did. I do? It’s complicated.’
‘Well, you’ve done a million festive romcoms by now. I swear the only person who has you beat on sheer seasonal output is Lacey Chabert.’
‘She’s a powerhouse. And yeah, I love romcoms, genuinely.
I think there’s so much power to them, a universality.
That’s why people gravitate to them, over and over.
Plus, I’ve had a pretty steady career being one of the hot guys they like to wheel out from the stable every year.
’ Christopher chuckles at this, so Nash adds, ‘Just to be unclear, there is unfortunately not a literal stable of hot guys.’
‘The greatest disappointment of my life. So . . . it’s not your dream anymore, is that it?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to work out. The deal that’s on the table isn’t just for the next Christmas Vet . . . I mean Christmas at the Clinic film. It’s more than that. They want me, and if I don’t sign, there’re a lot of people’s jobs on the line.’
‘Like Barbie’s?’
He doesn’t answer, and Christopher takes a sharp breath in.
It’s horrible to have to explain to him the way the industry rapidly dumps women once they’ve passed a particular age and area of stardom – those Instagram followers seem less and less relevant to the execs now that she’s over thirty, and that fucking sucks.
‘And you don’t want to sign this big deal?’ Christopher continues.
‘I don’t know really.’
‘Right, but what is the thing you do want to do, that you’re not saying?’
Urgh. Stupid smart tall man for spotting the gaps in what Nash is saying. ‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘Tell me.’ He says it so softly that Nash finds he does want to tell him.
‘I think . . . I want to write?’
‘Why is that embarrassing?’
‘Being a writer is fundamentally embarrassing. All your feelings on the page thinly veiled for entertainment?’ He fake-shivers.
‘I think I’d like to direct, too, maybe?
I got to help out a little on a few episodes of Parental Units but I was still a bit too young and inexperienced for them to trust me with the reins on such a big show.
The thing is, I’ve been on screen for nearly two decades and I just think I’ve had enough of being a public person. ’
‘You’re hardly doing interviews every day.’
‘It’s not that so much . . . like, yes I’ve slowed down on doing those but part of that is because people are significantly less interested in me than say the latest Marvel ingenue.
It’s more the being perceived part. Like physically?
I don’t think it’s all dysphoria, and I don’t think it’s none, either.
The only time I wear a packer is when I’m filming.
’ He pauses to catch his breath, because this is spilling out faster than he expected.
It’s weird; he’s held this all in for so long.
‘I think the general having to worry about my appearance so much when it’s filming season is the problem.
Too much policing what I’m doing with or to my body.
I don’t think it’s very good for me overall.
The exercise keeps my brain from boiling over, but is it only doing that because I’m constantly having to think about being on?
Would I be constructing home gyms in your bakery if I wasn’t thinking about acting? It’s an ouroboros.’
‘A what?’
‘That snake thing that eats its own tail and goes in circles. You’re posh, aren’t you? I’d have thought you’d know what that is.’ Christopher makes an indignant noise but doesn’t move away. In fact, his hand is still placed on Nash’s arm, a quiet reassurance.
‘Have you started writing?’ Christopher asks, doing that goddamn earnest face again that makes Nash want to tell him things.