Chapter Text
There were too many things he had accepted about him, from his overbearing attitude to that childish behavior that seeks him out when he feels helpless, because Chef had realized, through arguments and promises, that Chris Mclean was not the most unpleasant man he had ever met. On the contrary, he could be charming, charismatic, and even more human than he appeared in front of the camera and the spotlight; and while he had understood that the man who appears in the shows is him, the person he is in privacy also exists, that nothing about him is artificial. That everything he has been allowed to know over time is the truth.
Or almost.
Because there are things that he has not yet allowed him to know, enigmas of his life that he guards with such suspicion that he becomes incapable of understanding them in their entirety. And it is something he hates too much, not only because he doesn't feel confident enough but because of the same sense of inability it creates in him, since it is incomprehensible to him to be excluded from the things that torment him while he asks for comfort to numb the pain that is stale in the mystery; causing him to detest himself for keeping himself on edge when he could do things differently, make him see reason, that he shouldn't be self-absorbed if he has him there, because they have been together through thick and thin, even if sometimes it was better to run away. Because he loves him even though he can't be accepted that way.
But he remains silent, living with the idea that he is still not allowed to know every single thing that hurts him, only the absurd ways in which he tries to ignore it. Which is ironic as it is pathetic, because it falls back on the actions he boasts so much about in everyday life; he knows he is loath to find any other way to externalize it, it is something that becomes evident every time he looks at his tired face, at the lips that struggle not to twist as life begins to imbue its taste everywhere in his mouth and throat. Chris was not a great drinker, not even a good one, he lost his temper so easily that he was only confident of ingesting alcohol when he could be there: because he would see to it that his image did not crumble in front of those who would react to someone vulnerably dangerous.
He hears him murmur an attempt at conversation, undecided whether to continue pressing the bottle to his lips or to dare to lighten the tense atmosphere each time the conversation is reduced to monosyllables.
They cross a few words before returning to the beginning, where he just sits there, hoping he might know something even though he knows he never does.
Suddenly something happens that hasn't happened before.
He hears him speak awkwardly, combining the words together until he manages to push the sentence out of his mouth.
"You can leave if you want to."
Which completely baffles him.
He tries to compose himself to explain that he can tolerate him a little longer in this state, even if he is in the safety of his home.
But he seems to try even harder to push him away.
Bewildered and hurt, he decides to get up from his spot, refusing to see the reaction of someone he knows is creating the perfect circumstances for such a scene.
"I'm leaving" he mentions, naively hoping that it will stop him.
But it's Chris and he won't, he knows it in advance because he's had to learn to hate and love that reluctant side of him.
Still, he won't leave him alone, he'll wait until he asks him to come back, to cover him in his own fragile image that he refuses to acknowledge as his own.
Which doesn't happen, incinerating him in doubts that cannot be extinguished.
In any other situation he might allow himself to go to sleep, to read one of the novels he hasn't finished because of work, anything that doesn't involve him; yet he has been conditioned to that bastard, to care for him, to worry about details that warn him that something isn't right. Even if his life isn't on a live-or-die thread, it's just as important.
He allows another extra hour to pass before returning to look for him, finding him with half his body resting on the couch, his forearm draped over his eye area.
He tries to approach without making a sound on the off chance that he is asleep, taking his upper limbs as gently as possible to lay him down fully; once he succeeds he thinks it's all over, unfortunately it's not. He decides to remain static as he reacts impulsively, almost managing to sit up on the couch at the first attempt; fortunately for both of them, he's caught him before he hits the floor.
"Who are you?"
This time it took him longer to figure it out.
How much more did he drink?
"Chef."
"You're not Chef, he's gone."
"Very funny, we don't have time for your jokes. Come on, let's go to bed.
He has tried to grab him, receiving rough struggles in return; he desists at the fifth attempt to take him with him, adding that repeatedly his objection was that he would not leave with anyone else but the man he calls so loudly. The ridiculousness of the scene does not allow him to appreciate the feeling of warmth and confusion that beats in his chest; on the contrary, he simply crosses his arms around it, exhausted from his slightly adorable stupidity.
Once he sees him settle there like a frightened, aggressive infant, he decides to play along.
"And where is he?"
He watches him search the room, the light in his eyes dimming with each empty spot. His gaze drops and he doesn't let anything else answer to his question.
He sighs, swallowing the disbelief of the moment and ignoring the sadness such fragility causes him.
He chews on the words a little before blurting them out. "Do you need me to look for him or-" he's unable to finish the sentence as she watches him try to wipe imaginary tears from his tear ducts.
Who is the person in front of him?
"No" he hears him firm despite the brittle tones. "I don't deserve it."
"What?" the question escapes without any pre-processing, feeling oblivious to what is happening at that precise moment. "What the hell are you talking about?"
There are no answers, the only thing visible and noticeable are the barriers he creates; he sees him deteriorating, sinking little by little, lips being abused between his teeth, garments being squeezed between his fingers. Frustration, loneliness, expectations that he wants to continue to live up to despite the gravity.
Then he adds another thing to the list he hates: wishing he could trust a stranger so long as he doesn't tear himself apart like that.
"Man, if I promise not to say anything to anyone and forget what happened, will you tell me?" sees him try to look at him, wary of his words. "Consider it a double promise."
There's distrust in his gaze, yet he's on edge, he can tell by the way his jaw stiffens as he tries to vocalize the problem.
"I-".
He manages to sit down nearby, trying not to scare him off in her attempt to be brave.
The silence is unbearable.
"I like it."
Oh.
"I don't want to like it."
Oh.
He tries not to be affected by that, but how? How to ignore the pain that causes?
They both refuse to connect gazes.
He refuses to accept that the possibility was always in his head.
He speaks again without thinking. "Why?"
Why did he want to feel nothing about it? False courage pushes him to confront answers, no matter how crude. He wants just one reason why he should let go.
And he gets it by hearing him laugh in pain.
"Because he deserves better than this."
He looks at the ceiling, mulling over the words he's repeated to himself a million times.
He deserved better, yes, he deserved someone with fewer problems, who would give him more attention, someone who is the opposite of Chris Mclean.
But he doesn't want anyone else, no matter how much she deserves it. He fell in love with the annoying, irritating TV show host, captivated by the sadistic man who obeys with full attention when he is mastered at his game. He simply wants him, the person he is, the person he pretends to be, the person he denies being.
Because he is his problem, his stupid, pretty-faced love.
"You should tell him," he advises the air, allowing him to be the one to decide whether or not to follow his words. "Maybe he feels the same way."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"I don't know, do you?"
Neither of them converse again.
He nods goodbye, leaving the room to immediately return to it, announcing that it's Chef, coming to get him so he can go get some good rest.
And he seems so surprised that she's come back for him.
And how could he not?
Even with the things he hates, he doesn't stop loving him.
He can live with his secrets, let him work them out with his person in due time.
"I thought you weren't coming back for me."
He rolls his eyes, pretending to be fed up.
"Someone has to."