Work Text:
The bar was about the polar opposite of Chris’s usual scene; loud and cramped, with dim lighting and not a single window. He was clutching his second pint, as of yet untouched, with Annie at his side. None of this was part of his post-rehearsal routine, but despite that he had yet to flee.
“They’re really good, you’ll see,” Annie said, sipping her drink. “And he’ll be thrilled to see you came tonight.”
Prior to that afternoon, Chris hadn’t known Trevor was in a band. Knowing him, it was the kind of thing one could probably expect, but Chris had never bothered to speculate.
He’d been in the little kitchenette making himself tea while Annie and Trevor hung around, making idle chatter, and he found himself listening in. Annie had been commending Trevor for his work, given all the roles he played at the theatre and the time he spent practicing with his band. At that point, Chris had joined in and asked for more information, and seven hours later there he stood in a horrible bar waiting for the band to come on stage.
“I doubt that,” Chris replied, forcing levity into his voice. He was fairly certain Trevor had only invited him to the show because it would be uncomfortable to not do so. Still, he appreciated the offer. Despite all the time they spent together at work, he would never pass up a chance to see more of Trevor.
Annie just scoffed, downing the last of her drink. She waved the empty glass towards the bar before vanishing into the crowd, leaving Chris temporarily alone. Everything seemed much more intense all of a sudden, and he felt every single brush and jostle as the other patrons swarmed around him. Was Trevor’s band popular enough to attract this much of an audience, or had he just forgotten how awful bars could be?
Staring into his still-full pint, Chris tried to tune out everyone around him. He was here for Trevor. It was worth it. He was going to see Trevor in a whole new context – finally it was him up on the stage. It was exciting enough to make up for how little this crowd seemed to care about Chris’s personal space. He wondered if Trevor dressed any differently when he was off work, though he couldn’t imagine how. His self-imposed uniform was so quintessentially Trevor that Chris had a hard time imagining him in anything else.
Suddenly, Chris was jolted back into reality by someone colliding into him. In a blink of an eye, Chris was covered in beer and holding a much emptier pint glass. He looked up at the stranger, who was apologising furiously, and waved the incident away politely before heading to the bar to find Annie.
“God, what happened to you?” she exclaimed. Not giving Chris a chance to reply, she grabbed his drink and set it on the bar before taking him by the arm. “I think I’ve got a spare shirt in my car, come on.”
“I was going to drink that…” he protested weakly, letting himself get dragged outside.
“No, you weren’t.” Annie popped open her boot and rummaged around inside. It always amazed Chris how much she had in there, she seemed to have a solution for just about any problem.
Having found what she wanted, Annie turned back towards him. “Take your shirt off,” she demanded.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve seen you shirtless before,” she said plainly. “Look, your options here are to go to the bathroom in there – it's hell, trust me – or take your shirt off here real quick where no one will see.”
Chris sighed, but caved. Between the cold of the evening and the bustle of the bar, he’d rather be here, alone with Annie. He undid his buttons then shucked his undershirt as fast as humanly possible, reaching out for the shirt Annie had found for him. It was black and surprisingly soft, if a little too small for him. Not uncomfortably so, though, so Chris accepted the shirt and took to examining it. There was a colourful design on it – what appeared to be some kind of album cover – and the word ‘Urgences’ on it in artfully wonky letters.
“Is this a French band?” he asked.
“Huh?” Annie replied, chucking his wet clothes into her boot and slamming it shut. “No, why?”
“Well, ‘urgences’, that’s French…”
Annie just stared at him impassively before shaking her head and heading back into the bar. Right. Back to the front.
Chris followed her inside, careful not to lose the short woman in the crowd. She got them both drinks, which seemed dangerous, given what had just happened, but Chris accepted it nonetheless. She managed to snag them a table to sit at, slightly out of the way of the worst of the crowd.
“So, when does the show start?” he asked, sipping his drink; it turned out to be some decent-quality whiskey. He hadn’t intended to drink anything that strong, but maybe Annie was onto something, because the other patrons were frankly insufferable.
“Any minute now,” Annie replied, fully projecting to be heard over the chatter. She appeared to have gotten herself some kind of soda and happily gulped it down.
As if on cue, the lights went up on stage, where various instruments and microphones were set up. A woman stepped out, grabbing the mic centre-stage. She was in black and white with all sorts of bangles and accessories that glimmered in the light. Her smile was bright as the attention of the audience zeroed in on her, and she said, “Hello, hello, and welcome! It’s great to see so many faces, we’re Urgences, we’ll be playing for you tonight!” There was a cheer, and the woman smiled wider. “Now, give the band a round of applause, and let’s get started!”
The rest of the band made their way onstage as the frontwoman stepped back, putting the mic back in its stand. Chris’s eyes focused on Trevor as he jogged onto stage, picking up a black bass guitar and slinging the strap over one shoulder. He looked largely the same as he had earlier in the day, though he wore some skillfully applied eyeliner and silvery eyeshadow, and a few extra rings and accessories that would have made his manual work far too difficult. Chris couldn’t bring himself to look at any of the other band members, enraptured by the ease with which Trevor seemed to exist on this stage, hands finding their natural places on his bass. He’d been so uncomfortable every time Chris had made him act, but it was impossible to deny that he had an absolutely magnetic stage presence. Chris took a drink.
The band started up, the keyboardist leading them in. Their music didn’t sound like anything he’d heard playing in Trevor’s workspace, which rather surprised him. Still, the stage manager took to the music like a duck to water. The musicians all wore various alternative styles, and the black and white colours of all their clothes and instruments was what tied them together as a unit. The frontwoman was a very talented singer with a low, captivating voice, but Chris couldn’t tear his eyes away from Trevor. There was a mic stand in front of him – was Trevor going to sing? Chris took a drink.
Given that he’d never played any sort of guitar, Chris couldn’t judge Trevor’s technique, but he looked exceptional. He kept his attention trained on his bandmates or the crowd, fingers flying across the strings with ease. His smile was dazzling as he skillfully played. Chris took a drink.
Upon closer inspection, he noticed that Trevor was wearing one of his old shirts from Haversham. Chris took a drink.
By the third song, his glass was empty.
Trevor did, in fact, sing. He stuck to backup vocals, but to Chris’s ears his voice carried far clearer than the others’. He was good. He was… Chris took a drink from Annie’s glass. It was very much non-alcoholic.
God, why had he agreed to go to this? He’d been sure he’d buried his frustrating little infatuation with Trevor as far down in his psyche as it could go, and yet here he was, losing his mind over a show from a profoundly indie band. Grabbing his glass, Chris headed for the bar. He heard the crowd erupt into applause as a song ended. It seemed they were fairly popular, at least locally. Chris felt inordinately proud of Trevor for his success.
Leaning against the bar, Chris ordered more of the same, and tried to distract himself from his thoughts about Trevor. Which was obviously difficult, since the speakers were blasting his voice and instrument through the small bar.
“Big fan?” the bartender asked, handing him a glass.
“Pardon?”
“You’ve got their shirt.”
“Oh,” Chris looked down and realised that, yes, he was wearing Trevor’s band’s shirt. He was fairly certain he had put those pieces together, but that was when he was practically sober. “Yes. I know one of the members.”
“That’s nice,” the bartender nodded politely, turning to serve someone else.
Chris returned to his spot with Annie. She smiled at him, then returned her attention back to the stage.
Contrary to what Chris had hoped, the show was even worse drunk. The music, obviously, was quite good, and so was the audience. The energy felt electric, it felt like being part of something. Unfortunately, Trevor was also part of that same nebulous thing, and Chris found himself even more drawn to him now that his vision was blurring. He seemed to shine, accessories and makeup glimmering under the lights and relentlessly catching Chris’s eyes. He wondered if this was a universal experience. Maybe it was just something about Trevor that drew people in; his stage presence, his talent, his smile. Chris took a drink.
It seemed odd that Trevor wouldn’t have seen him before, given the amount of noise Annie was making, but he was fully certain he knew exactly when their eyes locked for the first time. Trevor, playing a rather simple line to highlight the piano solo, looked around the audience, looking proud as anything of his bandmate. Chris felt it, when they made eye contact. It made him want to climb on stage, or maybe hide under the table. Trevor’s expression shifted in a way Chris couldn’t fully decipher, then he dropped his smile before quickly looking away.
That was as good evidence as anything that Trevor had only invited Chris out of obligation. He took a drink. Then another.
It shouldn’t dishearten him this much that Trevor hadn’t really wanted him there. Chris Bean wasn’t exactly the kind of man one invited out to anything, much less one’s rock band’s show. He knew he got on Trevor’s nerves, it made sense he’d want a night to be free from the Drama Society.
Chris hung his head, slumping a little. He took a drink, and it was like the spell had been broken. Suddenly it was all loud and cloying and hot again, and the alcohol was only making it worse. Still, he had more. He couldn’t leave, not now, so his only solution was to down the whiskey and hope it made him feel better.
Annie nudged his arm, still beaming, and said, “This one’s great.”
So, obviously, Chris had to look up. Because he may be hurt but that didn’t stop him from being polite, at least not towards Annie, whom he respected. The second he looked back at the stage, he noticed Trevor staring at him, a complex expression on his face. Chris glanced away at the frontwoman, who was singing her heart out. It was a good song, some angry-sounding thing about an unrequited love; it was a slightly different style, and sounded so much like Trevor. Chris’s gaze slid back towards the bassist, who was now concentrating on his vocals. He found himself wanting desperately to touch him, or hold him, or get close to him somehow. Chris took a drink.
“So,” Annie said when the applause had ended and the band had cleared the stage. “What did you think?”
“They’re very talented,” Chris said. “Though not what I expected.”
“Really?” she said. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard Trevor listen to anything but 80s music.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he wasn’t allowed to write most of the songs,” Annie said.
Chris allowed himself to splay out across the table now that he wasn’t supposed to be watching the show. He was tired, drunk, and terribly confused about the resurgence of his attraction for his stage manager.
“Wow,” Annie chuckled. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you,” Chris grumbled.
“I’m not! You’ll need to pull yourself together in the next five to ten minutes, because we’re going to meet the band outside.”
Pushing himself up on his elbows, Chris looked at Annie pleadingly. He didn’t want to be close to Trevor in this state, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He was fairly certain he might just turn tail and flee. There was no good option.
“I could just leave,” he suggested somewhat pathetically.
“Not if you want your set built in time! Surely you’ve learnt your lesson on pissing him off by now.”
There was no way out of this, clearly, so he’d just have to drink as much water as he could and hope it would magically flush the pint and multiple glasses of whiskey out of his system.
Unsurprisingly, it did not. Chris stood outside in the chilly night air, watching hazily as Annie texted. He pulled out his own phone, only to see he had no notifications at all, and turned his attention to the sidewalk. A constant stream of people at different stages of inebriation were heading out into the night, and Chris wondered how successfully he could blend in amongst them if he just took off.
Annie was right, he knew better than to be properly rude to Trevor. That man knew how to hold a grudge, and would absolutely sabotage the next show in retribution. Plus, Chris really valued their friendship and wouldn’t want to hurt it over something so stupid as panicking over finding him attractive. It was normal for friends to find each other attractive, right?
Admittedly, Chris hadn’t had many close friendships to compare, but he was fairly certain he’d never felt such strong attraction towards a friend before. God, he was so sure he’d managed to fully bury all these feelings years ago. It was painfully in character that seeing Trevor on stage would be what brought them all back.
The other four band members all came out and greeted them cheerily before going their separate ways, leaving Chris and Annie to wait in the cold for Trevor to appear. Eventually, Annie sighed and pounded against the door, yelling, “Trevor! Come out, mate, or we’re leaving!” Which was a threat Chris very much did not want a part in, because he valued his skin and sets.
Almost immediately, though, the door slammed open and there was Trevor, carting out a disassembled drum kit with his bass on his shoulders. “Absolute bloody wanker,” he was grumbling. “Leave him to get his kit home next time, see how he– Oh, hey Annie! And Chris. Hi.”
“Hello,” Chris replied. He hadn’t felt this nervous around Trevor in years, it was ridiculous. He looked even better up close though, which seemed absolutely unfair. Chris had developed a tolerance to seeing Trevor after shows, but the makeup and unfamiliar jewellery was making it hard to get his bearings. “You were very good. You’re… All of you were. Good, that is.”
“Christ, mate, how much have you had to drink?” Trevor laughed.
Chris laughed awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself. A stupidly overwhelming part of him wanted to reach out and touch Trevor, which he managed to resist by clutching his hands in front of him nervously. “A bit,” he replied.
“Cool shirt,” Trevor said. He was still grinning, though it was less blinding than it had been when he’d been on stage. Chris blinked slowly, distracted by the subtle warmth of Trevor’s smile. “Where’d you get it?”
“Spilled his drink on himself,” Annie stepped in. “I happened to have one in my boot. Shame I didn’t have more sizes.” The last sentence prompted Trevor to scowl at her for reasons Chris couldn’t begin to parse. Those two practically had their own language, and if he couldn’t decipher it sober he had no hope in this state.
“It’s fine,” Chris said. “It’s comfortable.”
“Yeah?” Annie said. “You can keep it, then. You know, Trev designed the album cover.” She then patted him on the shoulder a little too hard, sending him stumbling closer to Trevor. “I’m going home now, gents. You have a nice night, yeah?”
“Wait, you drove us here…” Chris started to say, but she’d somehow completely vanished by the time he’d finished the sentence. “Right,” he said. “I guess I’m taking the bus.”
“Or I could drive you,” Trevor offered. “Your flat’s on my way home. I just need to get this damn drum kit into my van, is all.”
“I can help,” Chris said.
“You can hardly stand, you’re not handling expensive instruments,” he chided, but he was smiling. Chris was usually not very observant when he got drunk, but he felt like Trevor’s face was somehow even more in focus than usual. “Come on, you can keep me company. They do this every time; leave the only guy with a manual job to do all the heavy lifting.”
“That’s what you’ve got those muscles for, isn’t it? You’ve got to use them,” Chris said, not fully aware of his words until they’d left his mouth. Trevor turned away from him for a moment, tensing oddly.
“So, uh, what did you think of the show?” Trevor asked as he got to work getting the drums into the back of his van.
“I didn’t know you played bass.”
“Doesn’t usually come up in conversation.”
“Or that you sang.”
“That neither.”
“You’re very good,” Chris said. “You’re a natural up there.”
“Yeah, well. Music and acting are different.”
“I’m not trying to get you into another play, I’m just saying you’ve got stage presence. You’re magnan… mangnet… mangetic.”
Trevor laughed, which made Chris smile. He was always proud when he made Trevor properly laugh, loud and explosive. “I appreciate it, Chris,” he said.
“You look hot in makeup,” Chris said, leaning against the side of the van. At this point, he'd given up on being aware of what he was saying, focusing all his faculties into staying upright.
There was a clattering from inside the van, and Chris peered around to see what had happened. Everything seemed fine, but Trevor was standing with his face in his hands, which Chris thought was a shame.
“All good?” Chris asked.
“Yup,” Trevor replied, voice strangled. “Excellent.”
“Great.” He smiled, just because.
Attempting to sit on the edge of the van, Chris let go of the side of it and started pitching forwards. He sort of distantly realised he was heading towards the ground. Then, with the same detachment, he noticed he was no longer falling. Chris grinned up at Trevor, who was now holding him firmly.
“Okay, let's get you home, mate,” Trevor said, helping Chris back onto his feet before shutting the van doors. “You're really out of it, huh?”
“It's your fault,” Chris said as he was escorted into the passenger seat.
“Oh yeah? How so?”
“You looked so good on stage, I didn't know what to do.”
Every time Chris blinked, the world seemed to stop, only to pick up again moments later. It was in this shuttery way that he watched Trevor tighten his hands on the steering wheel, letting out a breath, before starting the van.
“Jesus Christ,” Trevor muttered. He was no longer smiling, but his face was a lovely red which altogether made up for it.
They drove for a few minutes, what Chris recognised as Duran Duran playing on the speakers. It was nice, the company, and he let his mind wander, partially watching the sights of the town go past.
“Can you sign my shirt?” Chris asked. “Bands do that, right?”
“It's black, Chris,” Trevor said. “Pen won't show up on it.”
“White pens exist,” he said, but dropped the subject.
In retrospect, Chris’s feelings towards Trevor had never been particularly well-repressed. If they actually had been, he wouldn’t have gone to see the show in the first place. He’d been finding excuses to spend time with Trevor for so long that getting coffee together on Thursdays and sharing dinner after closing night had become traditions. He had a clear record in his mind of all the times Trevor had touched him for a moment too long or stood a centimetre too close, and he frequently found himself thinking about his stage manager with absolutely no prompting. The habits that used to drive him mad were all endearing, and he found he didn’t even mind the constant soundtrack of Duran Duran even though he’d absolutely hated it when Trevor first joined.
Maybe it was foolish to say seeing Trevor perform was what reawakened those feelings, since they’d clearly never been dormant, but usually he was able to keep a hold of himself. Chris was used to ignoring his own feelings, but Trevor was making it damn near impossible to do so.
“Can I come to another show?” Chris said after a while.
“I didn’t think it would be your scene,” Trevor replied.
“It’s not. But I liked seeing you perform.”
“Oh.” Trevor kept his eyes on the road, his face doing something complicated. Chris leant his head against the dashboard and peered up at him. “Of course you can. Maybe go easy on the alcohol next time, yeah?”
“Hmm, okay. You’re probably right.”
“Your head’s gonna be killing you tomorrow.”
“But I can come see you again?”
“Yeah. I’ll text you the dates.”
“Thanks,” Chris mumbled, shutting his eyes.
He didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until Trevor was shaking him awake. Looking around, he realised they were parked outside his building, and pushed himself upright. By the time his fumbling fingers had managed to get the seatbelt unfastened, Trevor was holding his door open, one hand outstretched for Chris to take. He happily accepted it, both for the simple pleasure of contact with Trevor and the fact that he could hardly see straight while sitting down. The cool night air had sobered him up a little, but not enough for him to be properly stable on his feet.
Trevor helped him to his flat, taking charge of his keys and the lift buttons, and dropped him off on the couch. Chris looked up at Trevor, enamoured. His stage manager was fussing about him, providing him with a glass of water, some ibuprofen, and a piece of toast. His words weren’t soft, but it was Trevor; they never were. Chris knew to accept a gentle scolding as Trevor’s form of affection, and took the pills and food without complaint.
Before Trevor could leave, having decided that Chris was as tended for as he’d get, Chris reached out and grabbed for his wrist. He missed, but the intention was clear enough that Trevor turned to face him, curious.
“Thank you,” he said. “For inviting me to your show tonight. And getting me home. And taking care of me. I like seeing you.”
“Of course,” Trevor replied. His eyes were soft. Haloed by the kitchen light, he looked a bit like an angel. “Thanks for coming, it was good to see you.”
Chris hauled himself to his feet before clumsily pulling Trevor into a hug. Despite clearly being startled, Trevor wrapped his arms around Chris in return. He was warm, and solid, and Chris became impossibly aware of every place where their bodies touched.
Then Trevor was pulling away, and telling him to get some sleep, and bidding him good night. Chris stood alone in his flat, the memory of Trevor’s touch still lingering on him.
He went and turned off all the lights in his flat, then collapsed onto the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Not for the first time, he found himself unable to sleep for thoughts of Trevor. Rolling over, Chris pulled out his phone and searched up Trevor’s band, finding that they had a YouTube channel. He hit play on a video at random, watching Trevor perform into the dead of night. Chris fell asleep with his phone by his head, wearing the shirt Trevor designed, music still playing into the silence of his flat.