Work Text:
Whizzer Brown at Work
Whizzer looks very pointedly at the dozens of framed photos on his walls and has to stifle the urge to take a baseball bat to them.
They're all more or less the same—a white, handsome, repressed man with his white, skinny, hollow-eyed wife and their white, perfect, spiteful children. And it's the fact that they're all smiling that truly gets him—as if the husband isn't spending most of his paycheck on booze and whores, as if the wife isn't staring at the ceiling all day and trying to convince herself not to swallow bleach, as if the children aren't finding solace in drugs and others' bodies. The Nuclear Family, as they're called. Whizzer likes to put the emphasis on nuclear and hopes their eventual meltdown will never occur before he gets paid.
His next appointment is the Applebaum family, and Whizzer tries to play the part of friendly photographer and politely laugh at the stale jokes that he's heard dozens of times before.
"Could I have the two kids sit cross-legged in front of you two?" Whizzer requests, but when he looks into the lens, it still doesn't look right. It's flat and mediocre and so boring. Christ, when did everyone become so boring?
He snaps the picture anyway. After all, just because he hates it doesn't mean he hates the money.
As Whizzer engages in polite small talk (something so vile and abhorrent to him that he would rather have Nancy Reagan give him a prostate exam), he notices that the wife is trying to catch his gaze, a subtle invitation on her painted face. Whizzer looks down at his half-buttoned shirt and Italian-imported trousers and wonders what she thinks an actual queer looks like, if not like him.
The silent invitations to bed used to make him feel smug at worst and actually take up the offer at best (when the husbands offered, of course). Now, however, Whizzer just stares blankly at her, a distinct, disappointed distaste in his mouth. He's gotten tired of these games.
Really, Whizzer's gotten tired of a lot of things, these days.
:: - ::
In the seventies, everyone had a voice. In the seventies, the chains of domesticity and societal constructions were breaking. In the seventies, the concept of normal was being shattered.
But it's the eighties now, with the rise of Ronald Reagan and the perpetuation of the myth that happiness and fulfillment can be found within complacency and repression. Everyone is too pathetic, and Whizzer doesn't get it at all.
:: - ::
"See, Sweetheart? Now, this is what America is all about," The husband of the Dayes family pointedly tells his dispassionate daughter, finally handing Whizzer his check, "You offer a service, and you get paid to deliver that service. Government handouts are for the lazy, queer, and stupid. All that Great Society bullshit is the reason we had to elect a moral man with a plan in the first place."
Whizzer looks pointedly at his watch, lying, "Well, I have another client coming in about five minutes."
:: - ::
Lately, the only thing getting him through the day is the thought of Marvin—Marvin at home, Marvin in bed, Marvin arguing and bitching and giving him head.
Their incessant bickering always loosens up the tension coiled in his shoulders after a long day, has Whizzer sighing into Marvin's mouth when he just wants to shut the prick up and smashes their lips together. And the sex is great, of course it is, but Whizzer doesn't delude himself into thinking that these are permanent fixes to his despair.
The fact of the matter is Whizzer is just tired.
He's tired.
Marvin Works It Out
As soon as Marvin gets home from work, he strips off his suit and gets into his athletic wear. Jason has already left to hole up in his bedroom, leaving Marvin alone with his thoughts until Whizzer gets home. And though he tries not to think about it, the rush of rage still courses through his body, his adrenaline mitigating any sense of calming down and being rational.
Trina's back with Mendel. That's—fine. Of course, why should that even bother him? Marvin is happy in his own life—he has a roof over his head, his friends are supportive, he has a great kid, his boyfriend is hot. So what if Trina has found her own sense of happiness? Should that really annoy him as much as it does?
It's petty. He's being petty.
But doesn't he have a right to be?
For once, Marvin actually gets into the steps and lunges, the exertion of the exercise routine being the only thing stopping him from punching through a wall. When he's about halfway finished, Whizzer finally gets home, tension obvious in the set of his shoulders. He looks over and takes one look at Marvin's heaving form in the living room, looking actually relieved at the thought of exercise. He goes back into their bedroom and changes into his own exercise clothes, but while Whizzer wears a tight fitting, almost scantily clad outfit of a white shirt and short shorts, Marvin is sweating profusely through an old, ratty teeshirt and tight, rainbow shorts that Whizzer had gotten him as a joke on his birthday.
Whizzer jumps into the routine seamlessly, matching Marvin's pace with ease and grace. He seems to not notice the anger radiating off of his boyfriend's form, or—more likely—he's electing to ignore it. Eventually, however, Whizzer caves, asking pointedly, "How was your day?"
"It was terrible," Marvin explodes, the exclamatory bouncing off the walls of their home, "I had to find out from fucking Francis Higgins in the break room that Trina's back with Mendel!"
"Okay," Whizzer says casually, looking distracted, "What did you have for lunch?"
"Whizzer, did you hear what I said?" Marvin demands, affronted, "Trina and Mendel are back together."
"Well, then I'm happy for them." Whizzer responds airily, deliberate in his casual demeanor, "Maybe now Trina will get off our asses. And she could do worse; Mendel isn't that bad."
"He broke up my marriage," Marvin points out sourly, narrowing his eyes at him.
"You're gay, Marvin." Whizzer scoffs, rolling his eyes, "It wasn't much of a marriage to break up in the first place."
"That doesn't—so what?" Marvin counters heatedly, enjoying the burn in his muscles, "Trina and Mendel are like a grease fire. They make us look like the Waltons! God, remember when Trina and Mendel came over and screamed for—"
"Oh my God, Marvin, just drop it." Whizzer snaps, stopping mid-lunge and pulling Marvin to a stop. He cups Marvin's head in his hands and kisses him pointedly, effectively shutting him up. When they pull apart, Whizzer doesn't let go of his face, looking deep into his eyes and saying slowly, "You know I love you, right?"
Marvin's answer is immediate and unwavering, "Of course."
"Then just let it go," Whizzer advises firmly, exasperation clear in his taut voice, "She's not your wife; he's not your psychiatrist. Fuck them! You have me and Jason. Isn't that enough?"
Marvin feels himself soften, "It's more than enough."
A ghost of a smile appears on Whizzer's face as his hands slowly, deliberately fall to Marvin's waist, "You know, if you're still angry, I have a better way to work it out."
Marvin looks at Whizzer's mouth and thinks about it, but then he sighs and pulls back, "I have to leave soon and meet with Charlotte. We have to go over the food list for the bar mitzvah."
Whizzer rolls his eyes and sighs, slipping back into the routine, "Fine." He smirks suddenly, adding coyly, "You know, maybe you have a point—of it feeling like the old days," At Marvin's questioning look, Whizzer confesses wryly, "You're being a cocktease."
"Jesus Christ, keep your voice down," Marvin reprimands with a smile, hip-checking Whizzer.
Whizzer laughs, sobering up when he sees that the tension still has yet to completely leave Marvin's body. He sighs and assures him pointedly, “Those two getting back together is not the end of the world. Everything will be alright.”
Marvin breathes in the words, forcing himself to let go of his spite and echoing back, "Yeah. Everything will be alright."
The Neighbors Relax After Work
When Cordelia opens the door, the smell of burning and something vaguely citrus fills her nostrils, has her wincing automatically despite her silent pledge to be supportive.
"What is that smell?" Cordelia asks, closing the door behind her. She's careful to keep her voice curious more than anything.
"Nouvelle Bar Mitzvah cuisine." Charlotte answers her, moving across the room and giving her lover a kiss on the lips, "I'm glad you're home."
Honestly, Cordelia is, too. Between late shifts and coworkers’ homophobic innuendoes and retracting lightbulbs up asses, she's never felt so bone-tired than she has these past couple of weeks. It's not that this isn't standard procedure—she's been interning at the hospital for going on three years now and everything has more or less stayed the same, the good and bad of it all. She's not surprised that it hasn't gotten much better, but it would be nice for it to. You know, improve. At least a little bit.
"How was your day at the hospital?" Charlotte asks, but Cordelia just bites her lip and shakes her head. She doesn't want to talk about it.
Instead, Cordelia leads her girlfriend over to the couch, pouring each of them a martini and then curling up next to her with her head resting on Charlotte's shoulder.
"How was your day?" Cordelia asks tiredly.
Her face lights up, "It was wonderful. For the first time in months, nobody puked!"
Cordelia smiles encouragingly, "Yay."
"There were just burnt fingers on stoves, too much salt in the gingersnaps, and my lemon meringue pie gave a whole bachelorette party gas," Charlotte lists off before the lilt in her tone lightens, a smile evident in her melodic voice, "Today, I fed young people, old people, one priest, and a high school principal! Cooking makes me feel invincible—" She pauses, the heat behind her voice fading as she suddenly remembers herself. She kisses Cordelia's temple and amends softly, "Cooking and loving you makes me feel invincible."
Cordelia laughs, feeling warm and bubbly in her lover's embrace, "I save lives and you save chicken fat. How could you possibly live like that?"
"Do you know how great my life is?" Charlotte asks, putting their drinks to the side and pulling Cordelia up by the hand, twirling her around, "You save lives and I get to love you."
Cordelia dances with her, feeling young and adoring and all Charlotte's.
Racquetball
Trina nearly trips over her own feet trying to keep up, only barely hitting the ball off the edge of her racquet. Mendel doesn't even try to get it, and Trina is about to brag when he points out coolly, "It bounced twice."
She narrows her eyes at him, trying to determine if he's trying to cheat, "No, it didn't."
"Oh come on," Mendel says teasingly, his brightly colored sweatband pushing up his curly hair, "You know it did." The condescension and superiority that once laced his voice—the thing that always made Trina's teeth grind and stomach twist—is gone now, replaced with light-heartedness and an edge of teasing. The change is still so bizarre to hear in her own ears; the fact that Mendel is now willing to listen and play along rather than boss her around and criticize seems like a farce, a lovesick dream that Trina should be waking up from any time now.
Trina bites back a smile, looking away, "That's not nice."
"What, to beat you?" Mendel laughs, stealing a kiss, "Don't be a bad loser, Darling."
Trina picks up the ball and throws it, hitting it off her racquet and having it whizz right past Mendel.
Mendel sighs, vainly trying to fan himself with his hand, "We should have quit like three games ago."
"You give up?" Trina challenges, resting a hand on her hip.
"Look at me," Mendel exclaims, "I'm sweating like a boy about to lose his virginity."
"You know," Trina says, swinging the racquet in her hand, "I remember when you used to pick fights."
"Verbal fights. I'm a short, Jewish man with asthma," Mendel heaves, "When it gets remotely physical, I bail out."
"Poor baby," Trina coos mockingly, looping her arms around his neck, "Do you want me to kiss it better?" She parodies her own former sins: the docile housewife who always wanted more but couldn’t let go of her fantasy of being a perfect wife in a perfect family.
Before, Mendel had been too haughty and wanted to fix her, as if she had only been a pet project rather than a lover. Likewise, Trina herself had been desperate for fulfillment but unwilling to actually change in order to get it. But they've grown a lot since then, their two year separation painful but doing both of them good. Or, at least, Trina hopes it had.
"One more go," Mendel bargains, kissing Trina's cheek and backing away, "You ready?"
She readies her racquet, but while she should be focusing on the ball, she can't help but be distracted by the flush on his cheeks, the curve of his smile, the depth of his curls. Mendel starts the game, trying to hide his abysmal skill at the game by shouting out confusing places to distract her. As if she doesn't already have a distraction.
She meets each of his tosses, though she just can't stop looking over at him. She's almost afraid that if she looks away for too long, he'll cease to exist and she'll be all alone again.
Does he know? Does he know how much he means to me? How everything he does—be it an offhanded remark or an awkward smile or a nervous gesticulation—is more than alright? All I want is him. I want his smile and his caring eyes and his soft hands and his lips forming my name. He is everything to me.
The ball hits her shoe, and just like that, the game is over. Trina feigns heartbreak and leans into him, feeling his racing heartbeat flutter in his chest. Mendel's arms immediately come up to embrace her, "Hit your shoe."
"Don't be a sore winner." Trina looks up at him, their faces inches apart.
Mendel's teasing smirk softens, and he looks so adoring of her. No man has ever looked at her like that, and it brings warmth to her already flushed cheeks.
"All I've ever wanted is you," He tells her softly, and he seems like he means it. Trina's trying hard to stop overthinking everything and just believing him.
She matches his smile, "Took you enough time to realize that."
"Good thing that time is on our side."
And his arms feel more than alright around her and he's smiling like nothing can ever be awful again, and she's actually starting to believe that everything can be alright for the rest of their lives.