Chapter Text
Chris reviewed the "last" episode of the season again on his laptop, a little worried that it wasn't the worthy ending that would propel him into another installment, or worse, that he might be removed as the host of the season because of a fiasco he didn't control! After all, it was production who made the decision to put two inexperienced teenagers in charge of the sideshow; had they given any thought to how incredibly stupid that was? Even he recognises that huge mistake! Especially when they exposed some scenes from his private life, the one he doesn't bring out for obvious reasons. Reputation is everything in show business.
He lowers the screen, ignoring everything related to the [former] job to continue engrossed in his piña colada, trying to ignore that in the back of his mind he is infinitely grateful to Chef for having warned him, even if he couldn't avoid some of the public humiliation he received. Taking him on holiday [even if it was part of the reconciliation deal] with his person was thanks enough, wasn't it? A luxury room, all expenses paid and no need for either of them to have to think about a future contract renewal.
Or almost.
He scrunches the tip of his nose in disgust.
Why does he keep coming back to the subject of work?
He should be thinking about beautiful women strolling on the beach, the parties he could get involved in and make a mess of, the movie nights with Chef, anything other than what he could do or what would happen with Hatchet; what if they wanted some other co-host who didn't make any secret alliances? Or what if he again avoided paying him for absurd excuses of his mood and got upset again? Or what if they didn't want them together? Or what if he quit this time? Unlikely at this point in the game, they were reconciled, really. He had even compared it to a safe deposit box.
Then, his mind focused on that overlooked detail.
What was the significance of that correlation? I mean, why would it remind him of one? The shock of the moment prevented him from thinking about it, but now? He has all the damn time in the world and he should spend it on worthwhile things, just like that. Was it a compliment or a criticism of his person? Is it some strange message from his person? The grown man has recited more direct compliments to him, like that he's the best host on the show, or that his hair looks shiny that day, or that he has a pretty face, better yet, that he's a pretty boy, though the latter is more of a recurring nickname than a gentle observation. Sure, he gets points for turning it into a rather pleasant identification.
He fails to google the meaning of his words when the perpetrator of his thoughts joins the alcove facing the sea.
"You know, if someone is so insistent on a luau party it would make the most sense for him to show up there," his gaze is not heavy, he doesn't even judge; he doubts whether it's understanding or some feeling of concern. He's not the best at reading and translating improper feelings. "What's the matter pretty boy, afraid of someone dancing better than you in a leaf skirt?" silence. "Alright, what's the matter buddy? You're not one to keep quiet when it comes to showing off."
"I- I was thinking" when he hears the phrase 'hopefully not too loud' he furrowed his brow and around his eyes, getting silence drawn into a slightly mocking smile. "What did you mean by...reminded you of a safe deposit box?"
"What the hell are you talking about, man?"
"You know, that."
"I'm sorry to tell you I still can't read minds, McLean. You'll have to be more specific about what that is."
He gave a snort, or maybe it was more of a groan? At the suggestion, couldn't he remember? It had only been a few days since that fight! It could be that he's the only one who hasn't quite let go of that fear of never having him as a partner again, his partner in crime, the other half of his-.
He interrupted himself there. "Do you remember when you said you were leaving?"
"Which of all the times?" he saw him slump his shoulders, understanding that it's one of the few times when the subject is serious enough to make any kind of joke. "I remember it perfectly, which is why we're here avoiding any subject that would make me regret staying." It's funny the way they're both incapable of being congruent with each other or themselves; he can threaten him at the same time as he takes a place beside him, brushing arm in arm and clinking glasses of him drink. "All right, speak up, I hear you loud and clear."
Chris memorised the day, seeking to make the pain more enjoyable than it actually was; he needed to make sure that this scene in his life was not a figment of his imagination seeking to compensate for any significant absences from his existence.
"On the last leg of the challenge you arrived in a golf cart just as I ran out of ammunition, you had a safety deposit box with you...and you said it made you think of me. What did you mean by that?" he sees him pondering over his drink, which causes him to mentally transpose her words.
Bad idea.
Now he feels like he's looking for hidden meanings in facts where there are none.
He opens his mouth to excuse alcohol or any other external factor, of course, like so much of the mistakes he doesn't acknowledge, it's too late to remedy immediately.
"Honestly the first thing that crossed my mind is that it was perfect for doing the kind of damage you like" 'potentially deadly' he heard him mutter. "And maybe a bit about me being able to lock you in there if you remained a self-centred prick incapable of valuing the hard work I put in every time I agreed to work with you" he resisted refuting.
Was that all?
His cheeks coloured a warm pink, incredulous at drowning in a fleeting doubt that didn't seem worth it.
It seemed.
"Maybe deep down it made me think of you because you're similar" he watches him fiddle with a little sip of the drink. "I could say that- uh, you're amazing deep down. When you let people know the right combination to meet the Chris McLean in the background, you know, that guy who's able to say something so corny in his own way and accept the brains of the team leaving...or the kind of adult who sleeps with a teddy bear still." Low blow though totally valid. "You're not quite a kick in the ass, but if you let this go to your head, I'll consider leaving you tied to a palm tree."
He pretended to shake some of his hair out to feign the feeling that still lingered in his cheeks as well as in his smile.
"Oh, you know I'm not going to last more than an hour tied up."
"You want a bet, pretty face?"
He brushes his hand with hers, ignoring the clear signs that he's agonising over this man.
"Why don't we go for a little walk? I need to clear my head about what we're doing next season, dude, I don't think I'll be able to think of another 26 movie-inspired episodes."
"I think they'll be crying with excitement when they hear the good news."
He's given him a punch in the arm, receiving one to a lesser extent.
There's no tension in them, no inconformity in their lives or dynamics, even when their hands intertwine neither gives it a troubling importance.
Breathe in, breathe out, look at the sky, the sea and finally those eyes that surpass any perfect scenario.
He suppresses the rush of emotions that runs through his body.
They walk without saying a single word, the silence is cosy enough between them to disturb him.
Of course, it's Chris McLean, he's the best at ruining things to make them better.
Sometimes.
So when he feels the sand on his feet, he leans against the dark man's shoulder, letting out a long sigh. "You'll carry me when I get tired, right?"
Disbelief is in the air as is a resigned chuckle.
"You're fucking spoiled."
He doesn't accept it, doesn't contradict it either.
They both know that in the end they love to hold each other that way.
That he adores her holding him in her arms like a precious treasure.
That he firmly believes Chef is his safe deposit box, because he protects him from the world, guarding him as the most precious person in his life despite his mistakes.
And in that moment, that's all that matters to him.