In Haunted Attics

They have a quick break from shooting as the set is being repaired, so Bill sits on a plastic chair in the shade of his trailer and smokes a cigarette.

It’s getting late, the sun dipping low in the sky, and the air is too dry. Bill’s back still hurts from the fight scene, right at the base of his spine. He probably needs to get his makeup fixed. Instead of doing anything sensible like that, Bill stares straight ahead and counts the cars as they go by.

He’s at seven when Leonard shows up, still in costume, with dirt underneath his fingernails. He bums a cigarette off of Bill, and Bill’s almost afraid that he’ll need to make small talk, but Leonard just stands there, quiet. He leans on Bill’s trailer and takes a drag of the cigarette.

Bill watches the smoke in Leonard’s breath catch in the evening light, and something in his chest twists.

Sometimes, Bill tenses up more than is perfectly reasonable when Leonard has to get in close for a scene, when Leonard has to touch Bill’s face or neck or shoulder.

And sometimes, Bill makes excuses to leave early when he knows Leonard’s throwing a party that weekend and will mostly like be inviting the entire cast and crew.

And sometimes, Bill glances at the long line of Leonard’s back as he’s bent over a console, and Bill thinks to himself, What if? What fucking if?

After they cancel the show, Bill celebrates by getting drunk with Leonard in Leonard’s living room. They sit on the ratty old couch that sinks down in the middle and take drink after drink until Bill’s pretty sure he’ll still feel the hangover next week. Leonard has really great booze and a really great shoulder to lean on if you’re feeling a little woozy and an insane tolerance for a skinny guy.

The room is quiet, and an empty bottle of scotch sits on Leonard’s rickety coffee table. It was half-full when they started, Bill vaguely remembers. It’s empty right now.

Bill’s pretty out of it at the moment, so doesn’t really think much of poking his nose into Leonard’s neck and just sitting there for a while. Leonard’s skin is soft and warm, and his neck smells like sweat and his shampoo. Pleasantly numbed by the alcohol, Bill could open his mouth and let everything spill out. It would be easy. And then maybe --

Leonard says, “I’m going to get another bottle,” and stands up, a little uncertain on his feet, knocking Bill back so that all Bill can do is fall away.

Years and years and a lifetime later, Bill sits across from Leonard in the back corner of a hipster coffee house. He tells Leonard about the new album he’s cutting with Ben Folds, and Leonard tells him about filming the season premiere of Fringe.

Leonard’s eyes are bright and warm as he smiles. He leans back in his chair and holds his cup to his lips, and Bill watches as the steam rises in front of his face. Bill’s heart twists in his chest, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. He folds this feeling up and places it somewhere deep inside himself, where no one else can see.

His coffee has so much sugar in it that it tastes more sweet than bitter. As he takes a sip, he tells Leonard he’s going to cover The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins and dedicate it to him. Leonard laughs, and the sound of it brings back the ache, just a little.

Bill grins and feels the coffee warm him up. The ceiling fan whirrs quietly overhead, some college students are expounding on Nietzsche behind him, and Leonard’s shaking his head in mock-annoyance.

Bill takes all these things in, and he knows he wouldn’t trade this for anything else in the entire world.