~ Brenda Kahn

Toronto was fucking cold in the winter. Gale huddled in his coat, wrapping his scarf close around his throat and blinking tears of stunned chill from his eyes. The all-night grocery was only a few blocks over, and yet, he was seriously reconsidering his choice to walk. Maybe it would be a better idea to add on to his short list and have the groceries delivered.

He considered the warm, dry heat of the apartment and turned to go back inside but then he remembered the way the walls had been closing in around him, the way his mind wouldn’t let go of certain thoughts that were making him crazy, the way he just needed to get away, escape, run, move, walk, go, now. Move until he didn’t feel, walk until he didn’t think and, fuck the grocery, why not just head straight for the park and then maybe to the bars on the other side?

He didn’t really need milk and coffee, anyway. Fuck milk and coffee. Fuck breakfast and lunch and dinner and snacks and drinks and cocktails and cocktail parties for the cast and crew. Fuck Randy and fuck his new boyfriend and fuck the old boyfriend and fuck the one before that. And fuck the media, fuck the stupid fucking press who couldn’t stop asking him about being straight, being gay, being straight playing gay. So fuck that shit. Just walk. Walk without thinking for a change. Walk for silence. Walk for motion. Walk to just shut the fuck up inside. Walk.

Yeah. Like that.

The wind burned in his ears and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, anyway. Everyone knew how it was supposed to be and what all the rules are when it comes to acting and sex—when it comes to sex with co-stars. When it comes to sexy co-stars. Everyone knows you aren’t supposed to act on it, that you’re supposed to stuff it, and all of your feelings, way down deep, repress and deny, repress and deny, repress. Deny. Lie. Fake. Use it for the scenes, man. Don’t blow your wad in real life. Keep it for the screen time. Use that juice for something other than what it was meant to be. Channel it elsewhere. Make it constructive. Useful. Let it make you a star.

Yeah. The things he’d told himself over the last three years.

And then there was Peter who knew way too much about the situation. Observant little fuck. And, of course, Peter had to try to be helpful. Had to put his .02 on the table. Had to make sense and make Gale doubt himself even more.

Choices. Yeah, it’s all about choices.

The grocery store glowed on his left, the lights warm and inviting, the view of organized row after row of produce, dairy, canned and cut normalcy beckoned with images of a nice late night snack, a decent breakfast and a real, thick sandwich for lunch, but he pressed on. Like he’d said, fuck food. Fuck waking up tomorrow knowing that he’d have some eggs and milk in the fridge. So fucking normal. So fucking safe. Maybe it’s time he stopped looking for comfort and started looking for what he really wants. Maybe he should find something dangerous to put in that fridge. Something startling and new and wild. Like papayas and heroin. Like mint juleps and needles. Like condoms and hot gay sex.

So, see? It always came back to what he really wanted.

The park was dark. A little too dark, but, come on, Gale, old boy, this was about danger, right? This was about Gale and his big, fat fear of taking a fucking chance. He was brave once, you know. Once upon a goddamn time he didn’t care what people thought and so he auditioned for the part. A sexual predator. A gay man who fucked and was fucked and represented the heterosexual homophobe’s worst nightmares. Go him. And he won it. And he rocked in the role.

So, okay. Maybe he had been a little desperate. And maybe the producers had been a little desperate, too. Big fucking deal.

Big fucking whoop.

It hadn’t mattered in the end because it gelled. He gelled. No. They gelled.

So it had been Randy right from the start. And fuck that little bastard for making such a mess of everything. Ha. Fuck him. And therein lies the rub. Because there had been no fucking of any kind with Randy. Well, there had been faux fucking. Sex simulation for the fucking show, but no actual, real, getting it on, fucking.

And whose fault was that?

The edge of the park gave way to the street and the bars on the other side beckoned with outstretched arms. Come to us, Gale. Come drink away your thoughts and live on the wild side, oh wild child. Great. And if he’s already thinking in such fucking whirling madness, what, exactly, will a few drinks do to him? Provide him with clarity? Hopefully not. The last thing he needed was to be any more clear on these issues.

Roosevelt’s Crown was warm and thick with smoke. The bar keep poured the shot of single malt and Gale tossed it back, blinking his eyes against the burn and indicating for another. Three shots later and, goddamn, he was feeling warm. An empty, dark booth called to him from the recesses of the room, hidden away, nearly blanketed in smoke. Gale slammed a few bills on the bar and stumbled to the booth, slumping down in the corner, propping his feet up on the opposite bench.

He unwrapped his scarf, piling it on the table in a serpentine heap and dropped his head on top. It smelled of the outside, still, and he buried his nose in the folds, letting his mind swirl around softly, propelled in aimless meanderings by the warm hand of liquor.

It was the biggest surprise of his life to find when he kissed Randy Harrison sparks fucking flew. And, despite what they said to the press, despite what he said to anyone who asked him, it wasn’t ‘just acting’ because he couldn’t fucking act that kind of intensity, that kind of chemistry. That’s why it’s called chemistry for God’s sake, because there’s no controlling it.

What he could act and what he could control was the nonchalance with which he reacted to what had, in fact, been the shock of his life. He pulled away from that first kiss with a straight and serious expression, turned to the director for some kind of reaction and ignored the stunned look on Randy’s face. He feigned that it hadn’t been the most intense kiss he’d ever experienced. It was just acting, yo. Just business. Super professional. And, no, he was not shitting his pants because maybe those kids who called him a queer in high school were right after all.

And isn’t that just jolly fan-fucking-tastic?

Right.

So he’d told himself all kinds of things. He’d said, “Gale, it’s just because it’s new and different and taboo. Don’t freak, man.” Then he told himself as he stood in his kitchen putting together a nice, big sandwich, “It won’t always be like that. Once you get used to it, it will start to be just like any other kiss. Hell, you’ll probably stop liking it at all and get grossed out by it, like any good straight man.” He’d grinned at himself and shook his head at the reflection in the mirror as he shaved. “It’s nothing. Just good chemistry and that’s good for the show. Don’t let it get to you.”

And so he hadn’t.

Right.

What he had let get to him is the fact that all of those things he’d told himself had been lies. It was always that intense. It was always that good. And even when they’d kissed each other a hundred times, it never grossed him out like a good straight man. In fact, he just fucking wanted more.

Because, really, it was the kisses that did it for him. The other stuff? The actual sex scenes where they rubbed together naked and he ran his hands all over Randy’s body? Well, those weren’t like the kisses. They were so technical and so public—even if ‘public’ was only three or five people. It was impossible to really want more of that, even if he did want more of Randy’s skin and more of Randy’s hair and more of Randy’s mouth.

But the kisses—

Running his hands over Randy’s shoulders, up his neck, curling his fingers into Randy’s soft hair, pulling him tight, flush against him, hard and yet pliant. That fucking chemistry just took over and, Jesus, sometimes he was afraid he wasn’t going to stop when they yelled ‘cut’. And based on the glazed look in Randy’s eyes when the call inevitably came, Gale was pretty sure that he felt the same way.

But there had been reasons that the kissing didn’t continue after hours. Someplace private. Some place where they might move on to see if that naked stuff worked better when they didn’t have an audience. Good reasons, like—

Randy had a boyfriend. A long-term boyfriend and a committed relationship. He was in love, no doubt about it. A phone call from the boyfriend and Randy’s face was a Christmas tree, complete with presents. A visit from the boyfriend and Randy was in his trailer every second that he wasn’t actually in front of the camera. An email from his boyfriend and Randy was walking around grinning—until the let down came and then he was moping, griping about being lonely, missing the boyfriend, being alone.

Good reasons, like—

They were co-stars. Co-workers. And everyone knows you shouldn’t fuck where you eat, no matter how badly you want it. No matter how good the relief would feel. Or was that shit where you eat? It didn’t matter. Same difference. Same message.

Good reasons, like—

Gale was straight. Or so he had thought. Or so he’d told the world. And Randy was right about that, it wasn’t fair that he’d had to disclose that, it wasn’t fair that he’d been forced into a proclamation about his sex life, his sexual preferences, and it wasn’t fair that he was now boxed in by that decision. Randy always said, “I don’t mind talking about being gay, however, I’m not marketing my sexuality.” But it was easy for Randy to be honest because he knew the correct answer. He had a ‘yes or no’ response. What did you do when suddenly the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ turns into ‘I don’t know’ or ‘maybe’? And is it fucking fair to have to share that with the goddamn world just because inquiring minds want to know? Hell, his mind wanted to know and he sure as fuck wasn’t getting anywhere with it. Did he really owe the general public insight into his own confusion?

So, yeah. Good reasons all around to keep the kissing on the set where it belonged.

And so things had continued on that path of deny and repress, deny and repress, deny and repress, for three long years.

But all good denial must come to an end.

It was like a fucking episode, really.

Randy had long ago broken it off with the long-term boyfriend and had run through a few since then. Nothing serious. Nothing beyond the casual mention in passing on the set that he had to meet up with Mike or Tom or Colin that night. And there had been no Christmas trees with presents under them lighting up Randy’s face, not since long-term boyfriend had said sayonara.

Until now.

It was the wrap party, (and isn’t it always the wrap party when shit like this goes down?), when Randy apparently decided to spring his new love on everyone. It wasn’t Christmas, it was fucking Las Vegas on Randy’s face when he showed up with a gorgeous, dark, broody-looking guy named, of all things, Ashley. Like fucking Gone With The Wind, and, yeah, Gale had seen that movie once with his mother back in the day. Only Ashley looked a hell of a lot more like Rhett. And moved like Rhett. And probably fucked like Rhett.

Fucking Rhett.

Gale smiled as genuinely as possible, shaking hands and wrapping his arm around Michelle’s waist, some reflexive defensive move that he didn’t really understand. Randy’s eyes moved to Gale’s hand stroking Michelle’s hip; he smiled, winking at Gale and looking decidedly pleased. Defensive move backfiring. All platoons retreat. Retreat. Gale slid his hand up Michelle’s back and squeezed her shoulder in a friendly way before ending all physical contact, stepping back a foot or two.

Randy blinked and Gale lifted his glass in a small toast. “Nice to meet you, Ashley.” Then he turned to move blindly to the bar. Maybe he’d call it an early night. He didn’t feel much like partying, anyway. It had been a long winter. A long, cold winter and now that he thought about it, he couldn’t fucking wait for hiatus to get started. He needed to get away from Toronto, away from his little make-shift family. After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder. Gale glanced back at Randy who held Ashley to his side like a siamese twin. Heart. Fonder. Oh, God. He hoped not. What he really needed was some ‘out of sight, out of mind’.

And that’s when Peter showed up. Peter in his stupid, fucking, observant manner, sat down on the stool next to him and said, “Just because you want him, doesn’t make you gay.”

Gale motioned for a refill of his glass before replying, “Just because we have onscreen chemistry, doesn’t mean that I want him.”

“Riiight. Well, how about the off-screen chemistry? And the longing puppy dog looks? And the way you check out his ass every ten seconds? Or the way you’re about to gnaw your arm off with jealousy right now?”

Gale shrugged. There wasn’t much to say to that.

“Sexuality is a sliding scale, Gale, based on how individuals react to other individuals. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“Yeah. But the fucking media hasn’t. The world at large hasn’t. Hollywood hasn’t.” He took a swallow of his bourbon. “My mother hasn’t.”

Peter nodded slowly, squinting out across the crowded room. “Yeah, and my mother hasn’t figured out that white pants make her ass look too wide, but that doesn’t mean that I have to wear them, too.”

Gale chuckled. “Yeah. Pants. Sex. I see the connection.”

“Gotta get the pants off to have the sex.”

Gale smiled, close-lipped and sad. “I’m not ready to go there, Peter.”

“Let me guess—you’re telling yourself things like, ‘I still like women, so why choose to pursue a relationship with a man and make my life harder than it needs to be?’ and ‘I shouldn’t shit in my mess kit’ and ‘it will all go away if I just ignore it’, right?”

Gale snorted softly and nodded.

“Let me tell you, you might be right. You might really fuck things up with the show, with the chemistry, with your friendship if you did act on your feelings, if you did tell Randy that you want to fuck his little butt until he passes out from multiple orgasms. Sure, you could ruin everything and, sure, it would be easier just to stick with the girls, because they’re hot little numbers with tight, socially acceptable pussies, and they’re fun and they’re soft. Hell, you could probably fall in love with one of them—” Peter paused and Gale looked over at him waiting for what he knew would be the gut punch. “Then again, you already are in love with someone, and if you walk away, you’re fucking up a chance at something that might shake the ground under your feet, change your life, wake you up inside, shake you up, knock you down for the count and make you want to feel it all over again when you wake up.”

Gale frowned and sipped his drink, shrugging. “But, it would just be easier—”

“Right. It’s easier to give up than to give in. Maybe you’re right, Gale, it’s a lot more comfortable and safe just to stay in your misery.” Peter shrugged and stood up. “I’m going to go greet the happy couple.”

“Wait.” Gale grabbed Peter’s arm. “So, what if I decide to take a risk. I’m too late, right? He’s got someone now and—” Gale gestured toward Randy’s Las Vegas lit face ”—he’s happy.”

“Uh huh. That’s another good excuse.” Peter pulled away. “See you later, Gale. Have a great break. Keep in touch.”

So, there you have it. Gale Harold and his kink for safety. Safety and misery. What a fucking great combination. And now the whole world was taunting him, everything pointing out his cowardice and his failure. Everything. Even the article he had been reading on the Patriot Act with its stupid Ben Franklin quote, something like, “Those who would relinquish some liberty for some safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

Yeah, he was a fucking slave to safety.

And, apparently, he didn’t deserve his liberty.

So the weeks had passed and winter had rolled around again. Toronto was fucking cold in the winter.

They were in the middle of filming the fourth season of this show he’d won back when he had some balls, and he was alone, in the middle of the night, in a bar, with his face buried in his scarf thinking about the last three years and the liberty he’d given up for safety.

The liberty to kiss Randy Harrison, to touch his face, his hair, his body. The liberty to say, “I think I’m in love with you, you fucking prick.” The liberty to kick that Ashley-Rhett-a-like out on his ass and take his place in Randy’s bed.

So, yeah, sure, he’d still never been with a guy, and, sure, he was still scared, but masturbating while thinking of Randy for almost four years had sort of changed his perspective on what he was capable of doing in that arena. And he’d tried anal sex with a few girls, just to see--and, yeah, it was good stuff. He still didn’t know if he could take it, but he knew for sure that he could give it. He could just imagine Randy’s face as he pushed into him--

Damn. Now he was hard.

And lonely.

And getting ready to walk home alone in the cold.

Nice.

Fucking slave to safety.

Gale pushed out of the booth and wrapped the scarf around his throat. The night had further descended into the inky blackness of a cloudy winter sky and he stumbled across the street. The park enveloped him and he tramped slowly along his way, all thoughts whirling around a loosely fixed point of self-pity.

Morning came and there was no breakfast. No milk. No coffee. And no papayas, heroin, mint juleps, needles, or anal sex for that matter.

Just Gale and his toothbrush sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Shower, then clothes. Then shoes—oops, socks, then shoes. Then out the door and to the set for scenes of Brian with the munchers all day.

Safety wasn’t so bad.

After all, with safety, you could just live on autopilot.

And who wouldn’t want to do that?

Someone who was sick of being a fucking slave, that’s who. Someone who wanted to face their big, fat fear and grow their balls back, that’s who. Maybe someone who was face to face with the person of their dreams and finally, finally, knew it. Maybe someone who was going to throw caution to the wind and finally step up to the plate—
Someone who wasn’t him.

Someone who wasn’t eating a banana in his trailer and watching Randy devour a papaya across the tiny table. Someone who wasn’t ashamed of wanting to be that papaya. Someone who wasn’t thinking about Benjamin Franklin and the contents, or lack thereof, of his fridge.

“Missed you, you know,” Randy said, soft-spoken and glancing over his little glasses.

“Me, too.” Now was the perfect opportunity to say it. So, of course, he let it slide. “How was the break? How’s Ashley?”

“Break was good. Ashley was good.”

Gale lifted a brow. “Was good.”

“Yeah. Seems that he and I weren’t mint 2 b, foreva and eva, after all.” Randy winked.

“I’m—” Gale searched for the right words ”—sorry?”

Randy waved his hand, indicating with gestures that it was nothing and he should forget about it.

So, Ashley-Rhett was out of the picture. That was good. That was—very good. Gale bit his lip and fiddled with the banana peel as he tried to hide the sudden lifting in his chest, the corner of his lips.

Of course Randy noticed, though. “I see that smile. Didn’t like him much, huh?”

“He was all right.”

“Right.”

“No, really. He was all right. Just—” Gale glanced around the room, his prior elation replaced with instant terror. “Not for you.” And if that wasn’t a comment that would beg questions with difficult answers, then what was?

Randy was silent and Gale could feel the weight of his gaze. He met Randy’s eyes and was surprised to see no questions there, no speculation, just a quiet understanding and sympathy.

Gale sighed, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved that Randy was obviously not going to push the issue. Some days he just wanted it all out there on the table. But, then again, maybe Randy did, too.

“I know.” Randy’s voice was tender and the meaning behind those two words was layered and deep.

He knew. Randy knew.

So, now Gale had a choice. He could play dumb, act like he didn’t have a clue what Randy was referring to, ignore the subtext of the words and go for the surface meaning, or—
He could give up a little safety for some fucking freedom.

“I think I might be—” Gale’s words stuck in his throat and he swallowed hard.

“You might be?”

“I might be for you.”

Randy’s smile was instantaneous and sweet, not blinding, not happy, but peaceful and relieved like he’d been waiting for years to hear those words and now he could finally relax. Like he’d seen this coming from miles away. Years away.

“Yeah. You might.” Randy just sat there smiling softly, not moving, not asking any questions.

“So—” Gale’s heart thudded in his throat. He ripped the banana peel into brown, withered shreds.

Randy’s strong hands pulled Gale’s away from the destroyed peel and squeezed them tightly before releasing. “So, we have a scene tomorrow. Do you want to practice it?”

Gale frowned. “Uh. Sure.” He paged through the script in his mind. There were no kissing scenes, no sex scenes—just Brian having a conversation with Justin about the comic. “I guess.”

“Well, it isn’t a difficult scene. We don’t have to practice if you don’t want to.”

“All right.” Gale rubbed his forehead. “Um, okay. Yeah, I guess we don’t need to.”

This sure as hell wasn’t what he’d expected.

Randy stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He was leaving? He was leaving?

Randy stopped at the door to the trailer and turned around. “When you’re sure, when there is no ‘might’, call me. Anytime. Night or day.”

“Wait.”

Randy held his jacket to his chest and waited obligingly, face calm and resolute.

“Randy, this has been really—hard.”

A slight smile was the only indication that Randy was resisting the obvious joke.

Gale ran a hand through his hair and said the words he’d been fighting since their first kiss. “You. Okay, it’s you. I am the one for you because, Jesus, have you felt us?”

Amusement and easy acceptance played on Randy’s face as he stood with his back to the door. Gale moved forward. It was obvious that this was going to be his call and that big, fat fear had no place here and now.

And, fuck, yeah, sparks flew.

Hands in hair, mouths crushed together, tongues and lips sliding, sucking, licking. Gale shoved Randy back, seeking a solid wall to hold them while they ground together.

And, fuck, it was like falling. Fast and hard and stomach lurching anticipation all at once. Air rushing by, impact on the ground, a jolt—
Because they had fallen.

The door had given way and they were tangled together on the ground outside the trailer, the applause and cat-calls of the crew clued him in more than the pain of rapid bruising.

“Fuck,” Randy whimpered.

Gale lifted off Randy. “Are you okay?”

Randy nodded slowly. “I think I’m still alive.” He moved and gasped a little. “Shit. That fucking hurt. I’m definitely still alive.”

Gale pulled Randy up and tried to ignore the hoots of the crew, but noticed that the commotion had drawn a larger audience, the cast members drifting over to see what all the noise was about.

Randy glanced at Gale, rubbing his ass, and then called out. “No big deal. We were just, uh, practicing a scene.”

Hal and Thea nodded disbelievingly, while Peter smiled and shook his head. It was going to be all over the entire gossip chain that was Queer As Folk within the hour. Hell, someone was probably calling Cowan right this second.

Sex with Randy was surprising. He’d thought it would happen fast like the kissing, that he’d be making out with Randy one second and the next they would’ve come like two horny sixteen year olds.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

Randy was studious in his lovemaking. He was thorough and slow. And nervous as all hell. Gale was glad. There was plenty of time for fast and furious later.

The bed was warm and they’d pretty much done nothing but make out for a few hours. Randy kept muttering about the make-up people’s wrath the next day when they both showed up with beard burns on their face. Gale tried not to think about the gossip that would inspire.

The first orgasm was slow and strong, like slow-motion coming. Randy’s hand on him, stroking firmly, knowingly. Gale arched up off the bed as white spurts of come shot from his cock.

The second orgasm was later, with Randy coming deep inside of him. And, God, who knew that a prostate was that fucking sensitive?

The third orgasm was the next morning, straddling Randy’s hips and jerking off onto his flushed chest. Randy’s come joining his a few moments later.

Eyes half-closed, Randy dipped a few fingers into the pool on his chest. “We’ve made a mess. I think you should clean it up.”

Gale studied the trails of slick liquid being pushed around by Randy’s fingers. Something in him hesitated, a dash of that big, fat fear dropping by to taunt him.

“Gale?”

He met Randy’s gaze and took a deep breath. He bent his head and licked. It tasted like he’d known it would. And it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

Randy squirmed under his tongue, gasping, “What’s for breakfast?”

“This.”

After all, when you decide to forego coffee and milk for mint juleps and needles, you just have to deal with the fall out, and with any luck, you’ll find hot gay sex in your fridge.

Or something like that.

The End