Three weeks later, Ryan's shitfaced again, this time on the East Coast. He should be worried this is starting to become a habit, but he can't be bothered to give a fuck.
It's weird being the popular girls at the Upfronts party – sponsors seem to be gravitating to them like the proverbial moth to the flame. Of course, Aisha is the queen of making everyone feel welcome, in no small part because she seems to know just about everybody. Kenny ensures everyone's well-oiled, helping the handlers coordinate drink orders for all the people coming to hang out at their table.
He and Oliver exchange looks over the course of the night, the disbelief he feels mirrored on his co-star's face. They're new to this level of industry schmoozing, especially considering they're helping to steer it instead of watching from the sidelines. While Ryan feels out of his element, though, Oliver seems to take everything in his stride. Ryan should be annoyed at that, but he can't be anything but happy for him. They all work their asses off, and it's nice to have that ass kissed every now and then.
Around drink number six, as Oliver's pressed against his side in their crowded booth, one of his orangutan arms slung across the back of the bench, Ryan starts thinking back to the thirst tweets taping last week. That had been – something. Oliver had seemed a little irritated so many of them had been about their characters, but for Ryan it was a blessing – it gave him a much-needed buffer between himself and some of the more, uh, intense examples.
Ryan Guzman, I give you consent to choke me the fuck out with those hands. Look, Ryan likes to consider himself a 99% straight guy, but he can't deny the remaining 1% sat up and begged when Oliver read that in what he can only guess is his bedroom voice. Ryan actually forgot how to speak for a few seconds.
And then – and then there had been the last one. There was no way in hell Ryan was going to let video of him reading those words get out there; it would have been shoehorned into sixty-two fan edits by the end of the day. He'd laughed after Oliver read it, to cover up the fact that his skin felt like it was about to melt off his face. Jesus, who put stuff like this out on the internet? Did people never have private thoughts any more?
He's not a prude, but he'd never really given much thought to the – uh, the mechanics – of gay sex, and now he was thinking about topping and the other guy getting bent almost double to – uh, to – you know. And Oliver always says flexibility is one of his weaknesses, so if the bottom has to be the bendy one Ryan guesses that means he's getting elected to the position by default –
And okay, he's going to stop thinking about that right the fuck now.
Once the party breaks up and Kenny fucks off early because he's afraid if he keeps drinking he's going to say some shit he and ABC are going to regret in the morning, Ryan and Oliver head back to the hotel to freshen up and change before the after party. Everything's definitely fuzzy by that point, so Ryan's a little off-kilter when they're ambushed by a group of giggly fans in the lobby of their hotel. He smiles for what feels like approximately seven hundred and twenty nine photos, after which he needs a breath of fresh air.
He's barely out the doors when he hears Oliver calling his name. He tries his best to ignore him, but there's a helpful woman just outside who smirks and tells him that his man is calling him.
Luckily, Ryan's just sober enough that he doesn't say what he wants to say to her, but he obediently turns on his heel – with difficulty – and marches back into the hotel.
“Jesus, Olli,” he mutters when he reaches Oliver. “I just wanted a minute.”
“Nah, nah, nah,” Oliver says, “you are not going to abandon me.”
“I wasn't abandoning – you know what, never mind.”
“Look, let's just take a few more and then tell them we have to run.”
“I have a better idea,” Ryan says, gently but firmly guiding Oliver away from the swarm (fan-nado?) and toward the elevators. He hears murmurs of disappointment, but at least they're respectful enough to not chase after them, which he appreciates.
When his back hits the elevator wall, Ryan lets himself slump down a little and closes his eyes. “Man, they really want Buck and Eddie to fuck.”
“I don't think it's just Buck and Eddie,” Oliver mutters.
Ryan cracks one eye open and raises the matching eyebrow.
“Come on, what do you think 'Ryliver' means?” Oliver asks.
Ryan feels his stomach flip over, flip back, then flip over again. “Oh. Christ, no.”
Oliver cocks his head at him and smirks, like he's enjoying watching Ryan's brain break. “How much you want to bet there's fanfiction?”
“If you send me any I'll –”
“You'll what?” Oliver asks, taking a step forward. The way Ryan's slumped against the wall, he has to look up to meet his gaze. “What are you gonna do, Guzman?” he growls, and Ryan realizes Oliver just said that in the bedroom voice.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.
Ryan's too drunk for this, or maybe he's not drunk enough. Either way, he's suddenly, inexplicably terrified. Not of the man towering over him, but of the images flooding through his head. What does he need a pornographic story for when there's been one on constant loop in his head for over a week?
And yeah, sure, mixed with the terror is definitely a healthy dose of arousal. Flexible or not, 99% straight or not, there are a lot of things he and that 1% could do to Oliver. A lot of things they could do to each other. He's not familiar with all the mechanics yet, but he's pretty sure he could have fun figuring it out.
But that doesn't change the fact it's still fucking terrifying.
The fear must be written all over his face, because Oliver swiftly takes a step back and shakes his head. “Sorry, I didn't –”
Didn't what? Ryan wants to ask, but before he can muster the courage the doors open and Oliver hustles out of the elevator like his ass is on fire.
It's a really good ass for a white boy, at least it has been since he started bulking up. Another image flashes through his head, Oliver describing an hourglass shape with his hands. Repeatedly. You got a little thing going on. Fuek.
Ryan bangs the back of his head against the wall once, then launches himself into motion, eeling between the doors as they begin to close. Down the hall, he hears another door click shut.
He stumbles, rights himself, hesitates. His alcohol-soaked brain is overheating at having to work this hard. There are two doors in front of him: his and Oliver's. One door leads to safety, sleep and Tylenol, the other to a short dive off a sharp cliff. Granted, there's also the potential for life-altering orgasms, but that sudden stop at the bottom is still going to be a bitch.
He might be drunk and horny, but he's also a dad with a mortgage and a desperate need to not fuck up a steady paycheck by shitting where he eats. And so he chooses door number one, and hopes like hell he doesn't end up regretting it.
The summer goes by more quickly than usual, maybe because for the first time Ryan isn't looking forward to going back to work. He takes a trip to Hawaii with his friends, paints two things he's happy with and one he's not, spends lots of time with his kids. He keeps in touch with Kenny and Aisha, and the three of them get together with Peter just before shooting starts. He's not surprised to learn Peter's been snapped up by another show launching in mid-January, but while Ryan's happy for him it's still a little disappointing. Some small part of him was hoping Tim had cooked up a crazy plot to get Bobby back, but there's no way that's happening now.
The one person he doesn't talk to at all during the hiatus is Oliver. Of course the guy spends most of his precious time off driving around in a van with his dogs again, this time in Canada. Ryan hears from Aisha he was almost trampled by a moose or some shit, which also doesn't surprise him. What do they know about big animals in England anyway, they hunted them all to extinction hundreds of years ago. Ryan hopes the guy never goes to Florida, he'd end up inside an alligator in the first three days.
This is exactly the kind of shit-talking he sends to Oliver when they're apart, but Oliver hasn't texted him in weeks and Ryan can't seem to make himself pick up the phone. What the hell is he going to say? Hey bro, just wondering if you were going to kiss me in that elevator the night of the Upfronts? I'm kind of curious because you were a sullen bastard the whole rest of the trip and on the flight home, and since then you've ghosted me for weeks? On the one hand, it would be straight up insane to do that, but on the other hand, it feels like the elephant in the room that's preventing them from going back to normal.
Instead, Ryan downloads every Stormzy album and finds himself singing along to Blinded by Your Grace in the shower, where he most certainly does not think about Oliver when he gets a hand around his dick.
Anirudh sends him a link to an interview with Oliver when Ryan's shopping for school supplies with his kids. If you get shot again, you're carrying your own ass, he writes. Ryan frowns and clicks the link.
Three minutes later he's furious, because of all the fucking stories to tell about their time on set, Oliver's decided to share the one about Ryan's little addiction, which is something he understandably isn't all that interested in sharing with the goddamn world. That wasn't his story to tell, he texts back to Anirudh.
Anirudh answers back with a clown face emoji. Jesus, you two really are weird about each other.
Shut up, Ryan shoots back, like he's twelve and has just been called out on his crush. He blames it on the overpowering smell of fresh stationery.
He asked me about you yesterday, if I'd seen you, how you were doing. Kenny said you guys broke up in New York. It's going to be shitty enough without Peter, please tell me this won't make it worse.
We're fine. Everything's fine. We've just been busy, that's all.
Good to hear. See you in a couple of weeks.
Ryan gives him a thumbs up, then groans and hangs his head before catching up to his youngest, who has predictably forgotten the assignment and is currently eyeing a massive candy display that some devil has put near the art supplies aisle as a trap.
So okay, maybe he doesn't have an addiction, but there's no denying he has this – this thing where he finds it soothing to stuff a decent-sized piece of cake – usually some variation of chocolate – in his face when he's seriously stressed. The first time he'd done it on set was during the shooting scene, when they hadn't gotten the pages for the season finale and he didn't know if they were killing him off. The second time was right before the Family Feud taping; he remembers shoveling it in like somebody was going to take it away from him. But then, there's nothing he hates more than being put on the spot to come up with an answer he hasn't been able to prepare in advance.
Unsurprisingly, he'd been utter dogshit on that show, but he'd had fun anyway. Watching Oliver do his cocky London schtick had given him the urge to put his hands on him, and he'd done at every plausibly deniable opportunity. The Buddie girls on Twitter made gifs, it was disturbing as hell. He hadn't known at the time that some of them (and Anirudh, apparently) thought he and Oliver were fucking.
An itch starts under his skin after reading that interview, but it's fine, he never explained to Oliver about the cake thing so he drew his own conclusions. He'll be over it by the time they're back on set.
that dark brown taste, Ryliver, 2/4
It's weird being the popular girls at the Upfronts party – sponsors seem to be gravitating to them like the proverbial moth to the flame. Of course, Aisha is the queen of making everyone feel welcome, in no small part because she seems to know just about everybody. Kenny ensures everyone's well-oiled, helping the handlers coordinate drink orders for all the people coming to hang out at their table.
He and Oliver exchange looks over the course of the night, the disbelief he feels mirrored on his co-star's face. They're new to this level of industry schmoozing, especially considering they're helping to steer it instead of watching from the sidelines. While Ryan feels out of his element, though, Oliver seems to take everything in his stride. Ryan should be annoyed at that, but he can't be anything but happy for him. They all work their asses off, and it's nice to have that ass kissed every now and then.
Around drink number six, as Oliver's pressed against his side in their crowded booth, one of his orangutan arms slung across the back of the bench, Ryan starts thinking back to the thirst tweets taping last week. That had been – something. Oliver had seemed a little irritated so many of them had been about their characters, but for Ryan it was a blessing – it gave him a much-needed buffer between himself and some of the more, uh, intense examples.
Ryan Guzman, I give you consent to choke me the fuck out with those hands. Look, Ryan likes to consider himself a 99% straight guy, but he can't deny the remaining 1% sat up and begged when Oliver read that in what he can only guess is his bedroom voice. Ryan actually forgot how to speak for a few seconds.
And then – and then there had been the last one. There was no way in hell Ryan was going to let video of him reading those words get out there; it would have been shoehorned into sixty-two fan edits by the end of the day. He'd laughed after Oliver read it, to cover up the fact that his skin felt like it was about to melt off his face. Jesus, who put stuff like this out on the internet? Did people never have private thoughts any more?
He's not a prude, but he'd never really given much thought to the – uh, the mechanics – of gay sex, and now he was thinking about topping and the other guy getting bent almost double to – uh, to – you know. And Oliver always says flexibility is one of his weaknesses, so if the bottom has to be the bendy one Ryan guesses that means he's getting elected to the position by default –
And okay, he's going to stop thinking about that right the fuck now.
Once the party breaks up and Kenny fucks off early because he's afraid if he keeps drinking he's going to say some shit he and ABC are going to regret in the morning, Ryan and Oliver head back to the hotel to freshen up and change before the after party. Everything's definitely fuzzy by that point, so Ryan's a little off-kilter when they're ambushed by a group of giggly fans in the lobby of their hotel. He smiles for what feels like approximately seven hundred and twenty nine photos, after which he needs a breath of fresh air.
He's barely out the doors when he hears Oliver calling his name. He tries his best to ignore him, but there's a helpful woman just outside who smirks and tells him that his man is calling him.
Luckily, Ryan's just sober enough that he doesn't say what he wants to say to her, but he obediently turns on his heel – with difficulty – and marches back into the hotel.
“Jesus, Olli,” he mutters when he reaches Oliver. “I just wanted a minute.”
“Nah, nah, nah,” Oliver says, “you are not going to abandon me.”
“I wasn't abandoning – you know what, never mind.”
“Look, let's just take a few more and then tell them we have to run.”
“I have a better idea,” Ryan says, gently but firmly guiding Oliver away from the swarm (fan-nado?) and toward the elevators. He hears murmurs of disappointment, but at least they're respectful enough to not chase after them, which he appreciates.
When his back hits the elevator wall, Ryan lets himself slump down a little and closes his eyes. “Man, they really want Buck and Eddie to fuck.”
“I don't think it's just Buck and Eddie,” Oliver mutters.
Ryan cracks one eye open and raises the matching eyebrow.
“Come on, what do you think 'Ryliver' means?” Oliver asks.
Ryan feels his stomach flip over, flip back, then flip over again. “Oh. Christ, no.”
Oliver cocks his head at him and smirks, like he's enjoying watching Ryan's brain break. “How much you want to bet there's fanfiction?”
“If you send me any I'll –”
“You'll what?” Oliver asks, taking a step forward. The way Ryan's slumped against the wall, he has to look up to meet his gaze. “What are you gonna do, Guzman?” he growls, and Ryan realizes Oliver just said that in the bedroom voice.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.
Ryan's too drunk for this, or maybe he's not drunk enough. Either way, he's suddenly, inexplicably terrified. Not of the man towering over him, but of the images flooding through his head. What does he need a pornographic story for when there's been one on constant loop in his head for over a week?
And yeah, sure, mixed with the terror is definitely a healthy dose of arousal. Flexible or not, 99% straight or not, there are a lot of things he and that 1% could do to Oliver. A lot of things they could do to each other. He's not familiar with all the mechanics yet, but he's pretty sure he could have fun figuring it out.
But that doesn't change the fact it's still fucking terrifying.
The fear must be written all over his face, because Oliver swiftly takes a step back and shakes his head. “Sorry, I didn't –”
Didn't what? Ryan wants to ask, but before he can muster the courage the doors open and Oliver hustles out of the elevator like his ass is on fire.
It's a really good ass for a white boy, at least it has been since he started bulking up. Another image flashes through his head, Oliver describing an hourglass shape with his hands. Repeatedly. You got a little thing going on. Fuek.
Ryan bangs the back of his head against the wall once, then launches himself into motion, eeling between the doors as they begin to close. Down the hall, he hears another door click shut.
He stumbles, rights himself, hesitates. His alcohol-soaked brain is overheating at having to work this hard. There are two doors in front of him: his and Oliver's. One door leads to safety, sleep and Tylenol, the other to a short dive off a sharp cliff. Granted, there's also the potential for life-altering orgasms, but that sudden stop at the bottom is still going to be a bitch.
He might be drunk and horny, but he's also a dad with a mortgage and a desperate need to not fuck up a steady paycheck by shitting where he eats. And so he chooses door number one, and hopes like hell he doesn't end up regretting it.
The summer goes by more quickly than usual, maybe because for the first time Ryan isn't looking forward to going back to work. He takes a trip to Hawaii with his friends, paints two things he's happy with and one he's not, spends lots of time with his kids. He keeps in touch with Kenny and Aisha, and the three of them get together with Peter just before shooting starts. He's not surprised to learn Peter's been snapped up by another show launching in mid-January, but while Ryan's happy for him it's still a little disappointing. Some small part of him was hoping Tim had cooked up a crazy plot to get Bobby back, but there's no way that's happening now.
The one person he doesn't talk to at all during the hiatus is Oliver. Of course the guy spends most of his precious time off driving around in a van with his dogs again, this time in Canada. Ryan hears from Aisha he was almost trampled by a moose or some shit, which also doesn't surprise him. What do they know about big animals in England anyway, they hunted them all to extinction hundreds of years ago. Ryan hopes the guy never goes to Florida, he'd end up inside an alligator in the first three days.
This is exactly the kind of shit-talking he sends to Oliver when they're apart, but Oliver hasn't texted him in weeks and Ryan can't seem to make himself pick up the phone. What the hell is he going to say? Hey bro, just wondering if you were going to kiss me in that elevator the night of the Upfronts? I'm kind of curious because you were a sullen bastard the whole rest of the trip and on the flight home, and since then you've ghosted me for weeks? On the one hand, it would be straight up insane to do that, but on the other hand, it feels like the elephant in the room that's preventing them from going back to normal.
Instead, Ryan downloads every Stormzy album and finds himself singing along to Blinded by Your Grace in the shower, where he most certainly does not think about Oliver when he gets a hand around his dick.
Anirudh sends him a link to an interview with Oliver when Ryan's shopping for school supplies with his kids. If you get shot again, you're carrying your own ass, he writes. Ryan frowns and clicks the link.
Three minutes later he's furious, because of all the fucking stories to tell about their time on set, Oliver's decided to share the one about Ryan's little addiction, which is something he understandably isn't all that interested in sharing with the goddamn world. That wasn't his story to tell, he texts back to Anirudh.
Anirudh answers back with a clown face emoji. Jesus, you two really are weird about each other.
Shut up, Ryan shoots back, like he's twelve and has just been called out on his crush. He blames it on the overpowering smell of fresh stationery.
He asked me about you yesterday, if I'd seen you, how you were doing. Kenny said you guys broke up in New York. It's going to be shitty enough without Peter, please tell me this won't make it worse.
We're fine. Everything's fine. We've just been busy, that's all.
Good to hear. See you in a couple of weeks.
Ryan gives him a thumbs up, then groans and hangs his head before catching up to his youngest, who has predictably forgotten the assignment and is currently eyeing a massive candy display that some devil has put near the art supplies aisle as a trap.
So okay, maybe he doesn't have an addiction, but there's no denying he has this – this thing where he finds it soothing to stuff a decent-sized piece of cake – usually some variation of chocolate – in his face when he's seriously stressed. The first time he'd done it on set was during the shooting scene, when they hadn't gotten the pages for the season finale and he didn't know if they were killing him off. The second time was right before the Family Feud taping; he remembers shoveling it in like somebody was going to take it away from him. But then, there's nothing he hates more than being put on the spot to come up with an answer he hasn't been able to prepare in advance.
Unsurprisingly, he'd been utter dogshit on that show, but he'd had fun anyway. Watching Oliver do his cocky London schtick had given him the urge to put his hands on him, and he'd done at every plausibly deniable opportunity. The Buddie girls on Twitter made gifs, it was disturbing as hell. He hadn't known at the time that some of them (and Anirudh, apparently) thought he and Oliver were fucking.
An itch starts under his skin after reading that interview, but it's fine, he never explained to Oliver about the cake thing so he drew his own conclusions. He'll be over it by the time they're back on set.
(He will not, in fact, be over it.)