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twobirdsonesongTitle: The Neighbor, Or, Another Meg Ryan Rom-Com
Pairing: Chris/Darren
Length/Rating: ~5,800 / G
Summary: Darren doesn’t bake, or, that time he had to ask his previously unseen neighbor for help and a cup of sugar.
Read on AO3
Darren doesn’t bake.
He’s got his talents, maybe more than his fair share, but baking isn’t one of them. Flour, eggs, and sugar rarely come together for him in anything but a mess. Two months ago, he tried to make a cookie in a mug to satisfy a vicious bout of late-night munchies without leaving his apartment, and his microwave ended up coated in burnt butter and chocolate. It doesn’t seem right that his dad is chef and he can’t even attempt lemon bars without getting lemon juice in his eyes and powdered sugar all over the floor.
He knows it’s just chemistry, but he wasn’t very good at that either.
But his brother is coming over with his wife and their new baby and Darren is determined to bake something healthful and objectively delicious for them. Both to prove that he can and also because he’s been craving brownies ever since he spent a Saturday morning in his underwear splayed out on the couch watching the Food Network. But mostly just to prove that he can. Pride has always been a powerful motivator for him.
A befuddling trip to Whole Foods later and he’s got the unsweetened cocoa, the coconut oil, and the coconut palm sugar (which he didn’t even know was a thing until two days ago). All he needs are the chia seeds.
He does not have the chia seeds.
Somewhere between the aisles of organic vanilla flax milk and the $80 jars of honey, Darren forgot to grab a bag of chia seeds. Or maybe it was a box. He isn’t totally sure.
Darren leans back against the kitchen counter, staring forlornly at the pile of ingredients laid out before him, short only by one.
He could put on pants and go to the store, but he doesn’t want to do either of those things. Mondays are his one day off and he does whatever it takes to remain pantsless throughout. He’s 99% sure the grocery store across the street won’t have what he needs, and that jaunt would require pants anyway. The Whole Foods is just far enough away that he’d have to take a cab, which also requires pants. He could call someone and have the chia seeds delivered, but he’s neither rich nor famous enough to pull something like that off without coming across as a complete asshole.
Behind him the oven beeps that it’s preheated, and Darren briefly considers his latest attempt at baking a disaster before it really got started.
But then again, he could ask his neighbor.
Darren is pretty sure neighbors still ask each other for a cup of sugar or a stick of butter. Except he doesn’t know who is neighbor is. He knows he has one, just not anything about them. It’s not completely his fault; he works strange hours and it’s not like they linger or hang out in the hallway. And his neighbor has never knocked on his door to introduce himself, or herself, either.
Darren almost rented the penthouse, but his accountant warned him to wait at least until he has another hit show under his belt (which is hopefully just around the corner with his staring role in the soon-to-be-announced In & Out: The Musical) and she’s never steered him wrong before. So he rented one of the apartments just below the penthouse; it felt reasonable enough. There are only two of them on this floor: Darren and the mystery neighbor he’s never really thought about until today.
He’s not completely ignorant of the other people who live in the building. He knows the woman a couple of floors down who has two fat, snorting bulldogs named Pongo and Perdita, which Darren finds hilarious. And there’s the guy on 2 who never takes the stairs even though he’s only one floor up. Darren remembers him because anytime he’s in a hurry he inevitably gets caught in the elevator with the guy and he has to try his best not to look pissed and impatient.
Darren’s options that day are limited. He can see if his mystery neighbor is home in the middle day, and if they’ve got something as random as chia seeds in their cupboards, or Darren can give up and serve his brother the slightly melted Hershey Kisses that have been in his cabinet for three months.
Darren is not prepared to let these brownies go unbaked. Not while there is a potential solution.
The hallway is quiet, the floors freshly polished, and his neighbor’s wooden door bears an ornate bronze plaque reading 12B. Darren knocks, because he hates doorbells, and waits.
His neighbor is hot.
It’s the first thing Darren thinks when the door swings open, revealing a young man with rumpled hair, blue eyes, and glasses. He’s wearing jeans, a black t-shirt, and an inquisitive expression on his more delicate features. Darren snaps his jaw shut with an audible click.
Which leaves him staring wordlessly at the other man for too long to not be weird.
“Can I help you?” The man finally asks. His hair is brown and his glasses are very similar to a pair Darren himself owns. He thinks they look better on this guy, which isn’t completely fair considering how much Darren spent on them.
“Hi,” he says, too loudly.
The man presses his lips together against what Darren hopes is a smile. “Uhm, hi.”
“I’m Darren. Your neighbor.”
“I know.”
Darren blinks. “How did you – I mean we haven’t–?” He’s pretty sure he’d remember if he met a man who looked like this before.
“The woman on eight told me when I moved in.”
Darren nods. Karen. With the bad hair and apparently big mouth. He’ll have to keep an eye on her. “All right. So, uh, hi.”
“Hi.” The guy is definitely amused now, light dancing in his eyes and a smile playing at his lips. He’s still incredibly hot. And he has freckles across his bridge of his nose.
“Well, you know who I am…”
The guy extends his hand for Darren to shake. “Chris.”
“Nice to meet you.” Darren peers past Chris into the apartment. It looks similarly set up as his own: unnecessary foyer, big living room, huge windows letting the autumn sun in. What Darren can see looks tastefully decorated, if a bit boring; blue and browns and a coffee table strewn with paperwork and an open laptop.
“So…can I help you with something, Darren?”
“Oh, yes.” Darren snaps his attention back from his snooping. “Chia seeds.”
Chris tips his head. The freckles extend across his cheeks and he has the barest patch of light stubble on the edge of his chin, like he missed a spot shaving. “Chia seeds.”
Darren nods. “Yeah, my brother and his wife are coming over with their new kid and I’m making brownies for them, but I forget to pick up chia seeds and I hoping you’ve got some. I know it’s a little more random than a cup of sugar or something.”
Chris’ eyes flick up and down Darren’s form and he blinks. “Why do you need chia seeds for brownies?”
“Dude, they’re mocha chocolate chunk chia brownies. They’re going to be amazing. And as good for you as brownies can be. Pretty sure they’re vegan, too, which is great.”
Chris is smiling now and mirth playing in those blue eyes and Darren can’t quite tell if Chris is laughing at him or at his brownies.
“I’m not a hippie,” Darren says defensively.
“Right.” The word stretches across Chris’ lips as he glances pointedly down Darren’s body again, and Darren finally looks away from Chris’ pink and enticing mouth.
And he’s not wearing any pants. Or shoes. He’s standing barefoot in the hallway of this assuredly overpriced apartment building in only his boxer-briefs and faded college t-shirt.
“Oh,” Darren says and scrubs his hand through his messy hair. “Well, I was starting to bake…”
“Without an apron?”
Darren chuckles. “Don’t own one.”
Chris tilts his head, eyes bright on Darren’s face as though he’s looking for something. “You’re not much of a baker, are you?”
“Guilty. Just an actor. And singer. Usually both at the same time. Although not at this precise moment.”
“I know.”
“Right. Karen. On eight. With the big mouth.” Darren wants to shove his restless hands in his pockets, but remembers he doesn’t have any just before he tries. “So…do you have what I need? Or are you going to force me out into the real world on my day off?”
Chris snorts delicately. “Yeah, hold on.”
He turns away from the door and walks back into his apartment. Darren doesn’t step across the threshold, but he cranes his head inside, trying to see as much as he can. It isn’t much, given the set up of the place. The photos on the living room walls are too small see who they’re of, and the books on the tall shelves are too far away to read the spines. There are a lot of them though, books and bookcases, categorized in a manner Darren can’t quit decipher.
“You’re in luck.”
Darren snaps his head back when Chris comes around the corner, carrying a small bag with him.
“Hey, they do come in a bag.”
Chris blinks again, in that way Darren is coming to think means he’s trying to figure out how Darren’s brain works and how exactly it’s connected to his mouth.
“I hope your brownies turn out better than they sound,” Chris offers, handing the bag over.
“I’ll save you some.”
Chris smiles enigmatically. “Sure,” he says, and Darren does not know how to take that one word.
“Well, thank you for these.” The seeds inside whoosh satisfyingly when he shakes the bag.
“You’re welcome.”
Darren nods; he knows the end of a conversation when he gets to it. He turns to go, but pauses. “I’ll bring these back later tonight?”
Chris shrugs. “It’s all right. I’ll probably never use them. They were on sale at Whole Foods a couple months ago and I’d just read and article about their health benefits. Call it an impulse purchase. It was late. I might have been sleepwalking. Who knows.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am. Bye, Darren. It was nice to finally meet you.”
“Bye.”
The door gently swings shut and Darren is left standing in the hallway in his underwear. At least there’s no one else on this floor to see him.
***
The brownies are amazing and Darren’s brother takes the rest of them home with him when he goes. He’s mildly disappointed not to be able to offer any to Chris.
***
Darren hardly cooks.
It’s not that he can’t, it’s just that these days he has most of his meals delivered to his apartment in perfectly portioned packages in the right ratios of fats, carbs, and protein to keep his body going through eight tiring shows a week.
He still cooks for himself sometimes, when he has the time, energy, or inclination. Or just the itch to do it. His father is an amateur chef and Darren grew up around three-tiered steamers, basting spoons, and finely honed chef’s knives. It doesn’t mean he’s great at it, though. He can whip together a decent coq au vin if he has enough preparation, and his Thanksgiving turkey is generally the best thing on the table. (It’s the white wine and oranges he adds.) But he’s had his fair share of mishaps in the kitchen: over-cooked tilapia that stunk up the apartment for a week, macaroni and cheese that somehow congealed into concrete in the bottom of the pan, a sauce that exploded on the stove and took a solid two days to completely clean up. These things happen.
At least he’s better at cooking than he is at baking.
That day he’s making an Irish stew. He’s making stew because it’s Monday and it’s a chilly October day and he has all day to let it cook and simmer to hearty, flavorful perfection in the crock pot he stole from his mom almost a year ago.
Darren has lamb (fresh from the butcher and ready to be browned), potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, broth, and a mix of spices his dad makes in secret and leaves in a mason jar every time he visits. All Darren needs is a bit of thyme to finish off the seasoning and he’ll be able to leave the stew cooking for the rest of the day while he does absolutely nothing. (“Nothing” entails laundry and cleaning and all the things he generally neglects to do during the week.)
He needs thyme and his spice rack yields none. Neither do the cabinets or the drawers or that weird space above the microwave where nothing much fits besides a single, dusty vase and a box of matches. Of course.
A pair of pants is halfway up Darren’s thighs as he prepares to dash over to the grocery story when he remembers. The neighbor. Chris. With his blue eyes, sloping nose, and freckles. Chris with his living room of books and open windows. Chris was home in the middle of the day on a Monday before, maybe he would be again.
An odd kind of anticipation flutters in Darren’s stomach as he approaches Chris’ door. He wants Chris to be home, and not just in hopes that he’ll have a well-stocked spice rack. Darren wants to see him again.
It hadn’t really occurred to him before, as occupied as he’d been perfecting his brownies, to spare a greater thought towards the breadth of Chris’ shoulders, or how pale the skin of his throat had looked against his dark shirt, or that particular blue shade of his eyes.
Darren pauses, just in front of Chris door, as heat rises in his cheeks. He doesn’t know anything about Chris, but he does know how dangerous it is to assume. He can’t know if Chris is gay or straight or anywhere on that fuzzy, confusing sliding scale of desire after one brief, strange encounter over baking ingredients. It’s not for him to guess or presume; people do it to him all the time, and even if they’re right, or close enough, he still doesn’t like it.
Chris could be straight. Chris could be in a relationship, or married, or a divorced widower with three kids he only sees on the weekends. Darren hadn’t thought to look at Chris’ hand for a ring. In fact, Chris could be completely disinterested in him or anyone else for that matter. Darren doesn’t judge, and this isn’t some rainbow-flavored bar down on Christopher Street where Darren can safely bet that approaching a guy he doesn’t know is a chance worth taking.
Darren knocks on the door.
Chris is wearing his glasses again and Darren’s mouth goes a little dry.
“Hey, you’re home.”
“It appears so,” Chris nods. “And you’re wearing pants this time.”
Darren laughs, looking down at himself. His pants are tight and maroon and turned up at the hems, but they still pants. They were the first things he’d found in his closet when he’d remembered that he needed to wear something to go to the grocery store, or Chris’ front door. The fact that the pants are tight enough to reveal his religion is beside the point.
“Indeed I am. I thought I’d try out this whole ‘appropriate clothing’ thing I’ve heard about.”
“Well, you’ve at least mastered the ‘clothing’ part,” Chris quips. Darren catches Chris’ gaze flickering up and down his body and he knows when he’s being checked out. He grins.
“Baby steps,” Darren responds, and he sees that Chris’ cheeks are pink. He thinks that bodes well.
“Well, what can I help you with today?”
“Do you have any spare thyme?”
Chris blinks slowly and looks startled by the question. “Not…really. I’m–”
“–oh.” Darren’s shoulders slump.
“–kind of busy.”
“What?”
Chris tilts his head, clearly confused. “What?”
“I asked if you had any thyme. For my stew. I’m making an Irish stew.”
Chris blinks again – once, then twice – and Darren has no idea what’s going on. “Oh!” Chris exclaims. “Sorry. I thought you mean ‘time,’ like, if I had any time. For…something…” Chris’ hands flutter ineffectually in front of him and he blushes.
“Oh, shit.” Darren holds his own hands up. “Sorry, no, I meant, like, the herb. I mean, not no, like I wouldn’t want to do something. Because I totally would, if that’s what you thought I meant. Because, yeah.” Darren snaps his jaw shut against the flood of words.
Chris nods, but Darren can see the stress in his expression, like he doesn’t know why he said what he said, or why Darren answered the way he did. “Let me just get you that thyme, okay?”
“Awesome!”
Chris turns away, disappearing in his apartment, and Darren exhales loudly. He’s usually better at talking to people – even people he finds unnervingly attractive – than this. The upside, he supposes, is that given the way he caught Chris checking him out, Darren is pretty sure he’s not completely straight. Although that doesn’t mean much else.
Glancing inside, Darren once again sees a laptop open on the coffee table, surrounded by note cards and at least three pens.
“Hopefully this is enough.” Chris reappears suddenly and Darren jerks back. Chris’ eyes are keen and Darren knows Chris saw him peering into his apartment. Perhaps that makes them even.
“Hey, it’s fresh.” A few springs of thyme are in Chris’ hand and Darren knows his palms will smell of the herb.
Chris shrugs. “Made some chicken the other night.”
“Nice.”
Darren wants to linger, wants to keep the moment going, but Chris is staring at him expectantly and Darren has no other reason to be there. “Uhm, well, thanks again.”
“Anytime,” Chris responds, and something in the timbre of his voice tells Darren he means it.
***
Darren is okay at dating. Or at least he used to be, back when he used to do it more often. He doesn’t actually care much for it. The song and dance he prefers happens on the worn boards of a Broadway stage, not over a cramped table at a pretentious coffee shop, or an overpriced restaurant where he’s trying to impress someone he might not really like after all.
But he goes out to dinner with a guy from the Jersey Boys cast, because the guy is cute and caught him off guard and a little tipsy at Bar Centrale. All they end up doing is telling audition horror stories and not kissing at the end of the night. The next week he gets post-show drinks with his production stage manager’s nephew who’s been eyeing him for months. The kid almost knocks over his drink twice and Darren honestly can’t remember what they talked about.
And then there’s Chris.
Darren knocks on Chris’ door twice more over a few weeks: once to steal an honest to god cup of sugar for cookies and again for a can of black olives for pasta. (If Darren is completely honest with himself, he’s pretty sure he has a can of olives tucked in the dark recesses of the pantry, he just didn’t look that hard.)
If Chris is weirded out by Darren’s frequent visits, or his inability to check his cabinets before he starts to cook, he doesn’t show it. He just seems amused by Darren in general, smiling whenever he sees Darren at his door and humoring Darren’s strange requests.
Darren tries to flirt with him. He does. But he’s never been particularly good at it. He just likes to talk to people, to get to know them; he doesn’t want to deal in innuendo and subtle hints. And it doesn’t seem like Chris does either.
In all these weeks Darren still can’t figure much out about his neighbor. Chris is home during the day, can afford a moderately pricey Manhattan apartment, and watches Darren’s mouth when he talks. The last one is especially important. Because that, coupled with the way Chris’ gaze will flicker across his body, lingering on the parts where his clothing is the tightest, tells Darren that Chris isn’t wholly disinterested in him.
Darren supposes he could just ask Chris out, but his neighbor is still, in many ways, inscrutable. Darren doesn’t even know what Chris does for a living. It’s crossed Darren’s mind more than once that Chris might be an obnoxious trust fund brat who does nothing, but he really doesn’t seem like that kind of man.
After Chris hands over the can of black olives, he pauses, biting his lower lip, and Darren’s stomach knots in sudden anticipation for what he might say. It’s not like Chris has offered up much during their encounters. Perhaps he will now.
“Uhm, I like your show,” Chris says after a moment’s pause.
It’s not what Darren is expecting at all. “What?”
“The Glass Menagerie. I meant to say it when you first came over, but there just wasn’t an opportunity to bring it up.” Chris’ cheeks are pink and Darren is fucking touched.
“Oh, wow. Dude, thanks.”
Chris shrugs, as though it’s nothing. “I saw it a couple of months ago,” he says. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but I didn’t want you to think that it was the only reason that I, well…” Chris trails off and his blush stretches to his ears. “Anyway, the show was great. You were great.”
Excitement tightens in Darren’s stomach. “Man, that means a lot to me. Seriously.”
“It’s not flattery; it’s true.” Chris’ eyes have gone serious and Darren thinks he’s beautiful.
Darren got his first Tony nomination for that role, but he doesn’t need to point that out. Surely Chris knows. “I still appreciate it.”
Chris nods. “Well, good luck with that pasta,” he says, gesturing to the olives. “Hope it turns out.”
And once more, Darren wants to stay. He wants to ask Chris if he can come in, if they can have a drink, have a real conversation that doesn’t involve them standing on either side of a threshold while one of them holds a random bit of food. But he doesn’t ask, and Chris doesn’t invite him.
Darren spends the evening stuffing his face with too much linguini, flicking restlessly through Netflix, and thinking about Chris sitting in the audience at his show, watching him from the darkened orchestra.
***
He goes over a third time in those weeks, but Chris isn’t home, and Darren’s knock goes unanswered. The disappointment stays with Darren all night.
***
Darren looks for Chris, after that.
He keeps an eye out for him on the streets around their building, hoping to catch a glimpse of where Chris goes when he’s not at home, what he does. He lingers half a moment extra in the lobby when he gets his mail, pausing for another breath before he presses the button for the elevator, just in case he might catch Chris coming or going. They’d head to the same floor, after all. He’d have a chance to start a conversation without miscellaneous ingredients being involved. He’d get to say something else, something more.
But he doesn’t see him. Not wandering one down one of the winding pathways of the park. Not slipping out of a Starbucks on a chilly morning. Not waiting impatiently on a Subway platform.
It’s frustrating, and Darren thinks maybe it’s time to step up and try something different.
***
At the end of October, Darren has no reason to go over to Chris’ apartment on a Sunday night. He’s home from his matinee performance, he picked up sushi on the way so he didn’t have to cook, and he has no legitimate reason to wander down to the hall to knock on Chris’ door, except that he wants to.
Maybe it’s because they’d had an especially good show, maybe it’s because the people waiting for him at the stage door were kind and funny and genuine, or maybe it’s because he didn’t have to wait at all for train, but Darren is feeling good. He feels confident. There’s no reason he can’t just go down the hall and ask a boy out, a boy who might just say yes. Same as any other time he’s made a move. Almost.
The worst that can happen is Chris will say no. The thought of it makes Darren’s stomach clench unhappily, but he knows that a rejection will only result in no longer asking Chris for random pantry items and vague feelings of embarrassment any time he does run into Chris. What else can he lose?
As he puts his pants back on, Darren tells himself that he’ll never know if Chris really is interested in him if he doesn’t do something about it. So he might as well try.
It’s quiet in the hallway, but Darren catches the hum of voices coming from behind Chris’ door, excited voices, and it gives him pause. There’s never been anyone else at Chris’ place before, or at least not anyone that Darren’s noticed. He supposes, thinking about it, there might have been someone in the bathroom, or the bedroom. Someone waiting for Chris to get back to them once he was through with the weird neighbor. Belated jealousy blooms in Darren’s stomach, but he pushes it away and knocks firmly on the door.
Chris’ apartment is teeming with people, most of them a bit dressed up like they’re celebrating something worth putting the effort of not just throwing on jeans. A giant banner loudly proclaiming CONGRATULATIONS hangs from the wall: multi-colored, sparkling and obvious.
Cold flashes through Darren’s limbs.
“Darren, hi?” Confusion is writ across Chris’ face as he stands in the doorway. He’s wearing black dress pants, a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a tie. Darren has never seen him in a tie before. He looks beautiful.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know you had guests.”
“It’s uh, it’s no big deal. Just a little party.”
“Chris?” A new man’s voice calls out from inside and Chris glances away towards the sound.
Darren leans forward ever so, surreptitiously peering further into the apartment. A dark haired man with warm brown eyes and a bright smile is hovering nearby, gazing adoringly at Chris as he holds two flutes of champagne.
Darren’s heart finds his stomach.
“Yeah, I’m coming, Rob,” Chris calls back to the man, who nods and turns back to a group of party-goers.
Darren knows, he knows he shouldn’t assume anything about Chris and this guy and who they are to each other. But the party. The nice clothes. The champagne. The giant congratulatory banner hanging from the wall that doesn’t say happy birthday.
“So…what did you need this time?” Chris asks, smiling indulgently at him.
“What? Oh, uhm…” Darren thinks briefly about making something up, asking to borrow the first thing that comes to mind to make it seem like it’s why came over. But he can’t. All he can think about is the man with the champagne.
“You know what?” He says. “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it.”
Startled confusion passes across Chris’ fine features. “Oh, so, what are you–”
Darren takes a step back from the door and then another as he feels his face burn with embarrassment. “Sorry to bother you. Enjoy your party.”
“Darren, wait–”
But he’s already walking away, back to his own apartment. He doesn’t look back to see if Chris watches him go.
***
Darren mopes. He mopes and he drinks and he orders way too much take-out.
He almost forgets a line that week. In the middle of the first act he looks out to the audience and see a young man in the fourth row with brown hair and light eyes. The stage lights just barely illuminate the angles of his face and it’s enough to throw Darren off balance. The next words catch in his throat and his co-star glances at him with alarm present in her eyes. But Darren covers it well, he thinks, turning his moment of panic into deep reflection for his character.
“The hell was that?” His co-star asks him during intermission.
Darren blots the cold sweat from his brow and tries to shrug it off. “Just…thought I saw someone I knew.”
She doesn’t look like she believes him, and Darren doesn’t offer any other explanation.
He goes out to a noisy bar after the show to get drunk. He doesn’t care that he has a show the next night; he needs this, he thinks. Needs glass after glass and loud music drowning out his thoughts.
As 2am approaches, a man who looks a bit like Chris if Darren squints through his whiskey haze approaches him, and Darren almost lets the guy buy him a drink, almost lets him take him home. But he doesn’t.
A cab takes him home instead.
The hallway is quiet as Darren stumbles along and no sounds of merriment come from behind Chris’ door.
***
When Darren stops looking for Chris is when Chris finds him, standing at his mailbox one rainy afternoon, digging out a pile of magazines addressed to the previous tenant.
Darren doesn’t notice Chris waiting nearby until he’s closed his mailbox and taken a few steps towards the elevator.
“Hey,” Chris says, and Darren nearly drops his mail.
Chris looks tired, hair messy and clothes rumpled. Darren’s stomach tenses with nerves and his heartbeat stutters at the sight of him.
Darren grunts a wordless response and shuffles over to the elevator, punching the button a little too hard. He has nothing to say to Chris, nothing he wants to say, and his vain hope that Chris was leaving the building is trounced when Chris steps into the elevator with him.
Darren exhales as the doors close.
The elevator ride is some of the most uncomfortable 54 seconds of Darren’s life, right up there with the time he asked a girl out in a Starbucks and she said no, and he had to suffer through the rest of the line before he could escape. Darren stares at the wall and tries not to breathe in the cologne clinging to Chris’ skin and clothes.
The doors finally open on their floor and Darren nearly stumbles in his haste to get out of the elevator.
“Daren,” Chris calls out behind him, but he keeps walking to his front door. “Darren, please.”
He stops. The key almost in the lock.
Darren hears steps coming closer and his heart is pounding so loudly it must be echoing down the hallway. He finally turns to look at Chris.
His hair is sticking up worse than it was in the lobby, like he’d just run his hands through it. “I, uh…look,” Chris starts. “This is awkward. But I feel like you’re mad at me and–”
“I’m not mad,” Darren interrupts and the half-lie is bitter behind his teeth.
“–and I think it’s because there’s been, well, a misunderstanding.”
Darren shakes his head. He just wants to get inside and hide his shame in the bag of Halloween candy he bought two days ago. “Nope. Got it loud and clear.”
“Darren–”
“Really don’t worry about it, I didn’t mean to–”
“It was for the release of my book.”
That stops Darren short. “What?”
“The party. On Sunday.” Chris rubs his hands against his thighs. “My friends wanted to throw me a party for my latest book.”
Darren blinks. “You’re an author?”
Chris shrugs. “Yeah.”
It’s obvious now, or near enough. Chris always being home. The mess on his coffee table. The book-nerd shape of his glasses.
“I don’t think I’ve read any of your stuff,” Darren says, suddenly embarrassed by that too, and unable to think of anything else to say.
“It’s okay. I’m not offended or anything. You’re certainly not the only one.”
“Look,” Darren says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I gotta be honest; it kind of looked like an engagement party.”
Chris frowns. “Well, it wasn’t,” he stresses.
Darren searches Chris’ face, unsure of what he’s even looking for. But Chris is blushing a little, and his eyes seem a shade of hopeful, and Darren thinks about all the times he should have asked Chris out instead of asking for chia seeds.
“Okay, cool. Good.”
Chris tilts his head and blinks in that way that’s become familiar and Darren blushes.
“I mean, not cool. It’s not cool you’re not engaged to that guy, or anyone else for that matter. I mean, it is for me because – but not if you wanted to be engaged. Then it’s definitely not cool.” Darren stops. Exhales. His cheeks and ears are burning.
“Right.” Chris is smirking now, terribly amused by his rambling, and it makes Darren smile in relief.
“Uhm, well, congratulations on the book though, and your…not engagement.”
Chris snorts. “Thanks.”
“I’d like to read something of yours,” Darren says.
“I’ll give you a copy.”
Darren nods and an awkward silence stretches down the hallway. The magazines stick to his palm where he’s been sweating and his keys have grown heavy in his hand. He supposes this is the end of the conversation, a sudden stop the way all of their meetings have ended. He supposes he’ll go inside, break into a bottle of whiskey, and try to forget about whatever this was, and wasn’t.
But Chris’ next words stop him.
“Darren, can I–you were going to ask me out, weren’t you?”
Darren freezes. “What?”
“Before.” Chris takes a step closer to him and Darren can see the freckles across his nose. His eyes are gentle, curious, and he is beautiful. “When you came over that day and I thought you just needed another ingredient for whatever random thing you were cooking. Or pretending to cook. But you were going to ask me out, weren’t you?”
Darren’s heart is beating so hard it hurts, and there is no point in lying. “I was,” he admits.
Chris comes even closer and his fingertips flutter against Darren’s wrist. His pulse pounds in response. “Darren?”
“Yeah?” The word almost catches in his throat and he swallows heavily.
“Do you want to get coffee or dinner or something? Somewhere outside of this apartment hallway.”
Happiness breaks open in Darren’s chest, so bright he almost laughs. “Yeah, I do.”
Chris smiles. “And will you cook for me one night? You have taken half my kitchen from me.”
Darren laughs then, and turns his wrist until he can tangle their fingers together. “I think I can rustle something up. Might need some help though.”
Chris squeezes his hand. “Anything for a neighbor.”
Pairing: Chris/Darren
Length/Rating: ~5,800 / G
Summary: Darren doesn’t bake, or, that time he had to ask his previously unseen neighbor for help and a cup of sugar.
Read on AO3
Darren doesn’t bake.
He’s got his talents, maybe more than his fair share, but baking isn’t one of them. Flour, eggs, and sugar rarely come together for him in anything but a mess. Two months ago, he tried to make a cookie in a mug to satisfy a vicious bout of late-night munchies without leaving his apartment, and his microwave ended up coated in burnt butter and chocolate. It doesn’t seem right that his dad is chef and he can’t even attempt lemon bars without getting lemon juice in his eyes and powdered sugar all over the floor.
He knows it’s just chemistry, but he wasn’t very good at that either.
But his brother is coming over with his wife and their new baby and Darren is determined to bake something healthful and objectively delicious for them. Both to prove that he can and also because he’s been craving brownies ever since he spent a Saturday morning in his underwear splayed out on the couch watching the Food Network. But mostly just to prove that he can. Pride has always been a powerful motivator for him.
A befuddling trip to Whole Foods later and he’s got the unsweetened cocoa, the coconut oil, and the coconut palm sugar (which he didn’t even know was a thing until two days ago). All he needs are the chia seeds.
He does not have the chia seeds.
Somewhere between the aisles of organic vanilla flax milk and the $80 jars of honey, Darren forgot to grab a bag of chia seeds. Or maybe it was a box. He isn’t totally sure.
Darren leans back against the kitchen counter, staring forlornly at the pile of ingredients laid out before him, short only by one.
He could put on pants and go to the store, but he doesn’t want to do either of those things. Mondays are his one day off and he does whatever it takes to remain pantsless throughout. He’s 99% sure the grocery store across the street won’t have what he needs, and that jaunt would require pants anyway. The Whole Foods is just far enough away that he’d have to take a cab, which also requires pants. He could call someone and have the chia seeds delivered, but he’s neither rich nor famous enough to pull something like that off without coming across as a complete asshole.
Behind him the oven beeps that it’s preheated, and Darren briefly considers his latest attempt at baking a disaster before it really got started.
But then again, he could ask his neighbor.
Darren is pretty sure neighbors still ask each other for a cup of sugar or a stick of butter. Except he doesn’t know who is neighbor is. He knows he has one, just not anything about them. It’s not completely his fault; he works strange hours and it’s not like they linger or hang out in the hallway. And his neighbor has never knocked on his door to introduce himself, or herself, either.
Darren almost rented the penthouse, but his accountant warned him to wait at least until he has another hit show under his belt (which is hopefully just around the corner with his staring role in the soon-to-be-announced In & Out: The Musical) and she’s never steered him wrong before. So he rented one of the apartments just below the penthouse; it felt reasonable enough. There are only two of them on this floor: Darren and the mystery neighbor he’s never really thought about until today.
He’s not completely ignorant of the other people who live in the building. He knows the woman a couple of floors down who has two fat, snorting bulldogs named Pongo and Perdita, which Darren finds hilarious. And there’s the guy on 2 who never takes the stairs even though he’s only one floor up. Darren remembers him because anytime he’s in a hurry he inevitably gets caught in the elevator with the guy and he has to try his best not to look pissed and impatient.
Darren’s options that day are limited. He can see if his mystery neighbor is home in the middle day, and if they’ve got something as random as chia seeds in their cupboards, or Darren can give up and serve his brother the slightly melted Hershey Kisses that have been in his cabinet for three months.
Darren is not prepared to let these brownies go unbaked. Not while there is a potential solution.
The hallway is quiet, the floors freshly polished, and his neighbor’s wooden door bears an ornate bronze plaque reading 12B. Darren knocks, because he hates doorbells, and waits.
His neighbor is hot.
It’s the first thing Darren thinks when the door swings open, revealing a young man with rumpled hair, blue eyes, and glasses. He’s wearing jeans, a black t-shirt, and an inquisitive expression on his more delicate features. Darren snaps his jaw shut with an audible click.
Which leaves him staring wordlessly at the other man for too long to not be weird.
“Can I help you?” The man finally asks. His hair is brown and his glasses are very similar to a pair Darren himself owns. He thinks they look better on this guy, which isn’t completely fair considering how much Darren spent on them.
“Hi,” he says, too loudly.
The man presses his lips together against what Darren hopes is a smile. “Uhm, hi.”
“I’m Darren. Your neighbor.”
“I know.”
Darren blinks. “How did you – I mean we haven’t–?” He’s pretty sure he’d remember if he met a man who looked like this before.
“The woman on eight told me when I moved in.”
Darren nods. Karen. With the bad hair and apparently big mouth. He’ll have to keep an eye on her. “All right. So, uh, hi.”
“Hi.” The guy is definitely amused now, light dancing in his eyes and a smile playing at his lips. He’s still incredibly hot. And he has freckles across his bridge of his nose.
“Well, you know who I am…”
The guy extends his hand for Darren to shake. “Chris.”
“Nice to meet you.” Darren peers past Chris into the apartment. It looks similarly set up as his own: unnecessary foyer, big living room, huge windows letting the autumn sun in. What Darren can see looks tastefully decorated, if a bit boring; blue and browns and a coffee table strewn with paperwork and an open laptop.
“So…can I help you with something, Darren?”
“Oh, yes.” Darren snaps his attention back from his snooping. “Chia seeds.”
Chris tips his head. The freckles extend across his cheeks and he has the barest patch of light stubble on the edge of his chin, like he missed a spot shaving. “Chia seeds.”
Darren nods. “Yeah, my brother and his wife are coming over with their new kid and I’m making brownies for them, but I forget to pick up chia seeds and I hoping you’ve got some. I know it’s a little more random than a cup of sugar or something.”
Chris’ eyes flick up and down Darren’s form and he blinks. “Why do you need chia seeds for brownies?”
“Dude, they’re mocha chocolate chunk chia brownies. They’re going to be amazing. And as good for you as brownies can be. Pretty sure they’re vegan, too, which is great.”
Chris is smiling now and mirth playing in those blue eyes and Darren can’t quite tell if Chris is laughing at him or at his brownies.
“I’m not a hippie,” Darren says defensively.
“Right.” The word stretches across Chris’ lips as he glances pointedly down Darren’s body again, and Darren finally looks away from Chris’ pink and enticing mouth.
And he’s not wearing any pants. Or shoes. He’s standing barefoot in the hallway of this assuredly overpriced apartment building in only his boxer-briefs and faded college t-shirt.
“Oh,” Darren says and scrubs his hand through his messy hair. “Well, I was starting to bake…”
“Without an apron?”
Darren chuckles. “Don’t own one.”
Chris tilts his head, eyes bright on Darren’s face as though he’s looking for something. “You’re not much of a baker, are you?”
“Guilty. Just an actor. And singer. Usually both at the same time. Although not at this precise moment.”
“I know.”
“Right. Karen. On eight. With the big mouth.” Darren wants to shove his restless hands in his pockets, but remembers he doesn’t have any just before he tries. “So…do you have what I need? Or are you going to force me out into the real world on my day off?”
Chris snorts delicately. “Yeah, hold on.”
He turns away from the door and walks back into his apartment. Darren doesn’t step across the threshold, but he cranes his head inside, trying to see as much as he can. It isn’t much, given the set up of the place. The photos on the living room walls are too small see who they’re of, and the books on the tall shelves are too far away to read the spines. There are a lot of them though, books and bookcases, categorized in a manner Darren can’t quit decipher.
“You’re in luck.”
Darren snaps his head back when Chris comes around the corner, carrying a small bag with him.
“Hey, they do come in a bag.”
Chris blinks again, in that way Darren is coming to think means he’s trying to figure out how Darren’s brain works and how exactly it’s connected to his mouth.
“I hope your brownies turn out better than they sound,” Chris offers, handing the bag over.
“I’ll save you some.”
Chris smiles enigmatically. “Sure,” he says, and Darren does not know how to take that one word.
“Well, thank you for these.” The seeds inside whoosh satisfyingly when he shakes the bag.
“You’re welcome.”
Darren nods; he knows the end of a conversation when he gets to it. He turns to go, but pauses. “I’ll bring these back later tonight?”
Chris shrugs. “It’s all right. I’ll probably never use them. They were on sale at Whole Foods a couple months ago and I’d just read and article about their health benefits. Call it an impulse purchase. It was late. I might have been sleepwalking. Who knows.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am. Bye, Darren. It was nice to finally meet you.”
“Bye.”
The door gently swings shut and Darren is left standing in the hallway in his underwear. At least there’s no one else on this floor to see him.
***
The brownies are amazing and Darren’s brother takes the rest of them home with him when he goes. He’s mildly disappointed not to be able to offer any to Chris.
***
Darren hardly cooks.
It’s not that he can’t, it’s just that these days he has most of his meals delivered to his apartment in perfectly portioned packages in the right ratios of fats, carbs, and protein to keep his body going through eight tiring shows a week.
He still cooks for himself sometimes, when he has the time, energy, or inclination. Or just the itch to do it. His father is an amateur chef and Darren grew up around three-tiered steamers, basting spoons, and finely honed chef’s knives. It doesn’t mean he’s great at it, though. He can whip together a decent coq au vin if he has enough preparation, and his Thanksgiving turkey is generally the best thing on the table. (It’s the white wine and oranges he adds.) But he’s had his fair share of mishaps in the kitchen: over-cooked tilapia that stunk up the apartment for a week, macaroni and cheese that somehow congealed into concrete in the bottom of the pan, a sauce that exploded on the stove and took a solid two days to completely clean up. These things happen.
At least he’s better at cooking than he is at baking.
That day he’s making an Irish stew. He’s making stew because it’s Monday and it’s a chilly October day and he has all day to let it cook and simmer to hearty, flavorful perfection in the crock pot he stole from his mom almost a year ago.
Darren has lamb (fresh from the butcher and ready to be browned), potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, broth, and a mix of spices his dad makes in secret and leaves in a mason jar every time he visits. All Darren needs is a bit of thyme to finish off the seasoning and he’ll be able to leave the stew cooking for the rest of the day while he does absolutely nothing. (“Nothing” entails laundry and cleaning and all the things he generally neglects to do during the week.)
He needs thyme and his spice rack yields none. Neither do the cabinets or the drawers or that weird space above the microwave where nothing much fits besides a single, dusty vase and a box of matches. Of course.
A pair of pants is halfway up Darren’s thighs as he prepares to dash over to the grocery story when he remembers. The neighbor. Chris. With his blue eyes, sloping nose, and freckles. Chris with his living room of books and open windows. Chris was home in the middle of the day on a Monday before, maybe he would be again.
An odd kind of anticipation flutters in Darren’s stomach as he approaches Chris’ door. He wants Chris to be home, and not just in hopes that he’ll have a well-stocked spice rack. Darren wants to see him again.
It hadn’t really occurred to him before, as occupied as he’d been perfecting his brownies, to spare a greater thought towards the breadth of Chris’ shoulders, or how pale the skin of his throat had looked against his dark shirt, or that particular blue shade of his eyes.
Darren pauses, just in front of Chris door, as heat rises in his cheeks. He doesn’t know anything about Chris, but he does know how dangerous it is to assume. He can’t know if Chris is gay or straight or anywhere on that fuzzy, confusing sliding scale of desire after one brief, strange encounter over baking ingredients. It’s not for him to guess or presume; people do it to him all the time, and even if they’re right, or close enough, he still doesn’t like it.
Chris could be straight. Chris could be in a relationship, or married, or a divorced widower with three kids he only sees on the weekends. Darren hadn’t thought to look at Chris’ hand for a ring. In fact, Chris could be completely disinterested in him or anyone else for that matter. Darren doesn’t judge, and this isn’t some rainbow-flavored bar down on Christopher Street where Darren can safely bet that approaching a guy he doesn’t know is a chance worth taking.
Darren knocks on the door.
Chris is wearing his glasses again and Darren’s mouth goes a little dry.
“Hey, you’re home.”
“It appears so,” Chris nods. “And you’re wearing pants this time.”
Darren laughs, looking down at himself. His pants are tight and maroon and turned up at the hems, but they still pants. They were the first things he’d found in his closet when he’d remembered that he needed to wear something to go to the grocery store, or Chris’ front door. The fact that the pants are tight enough to reveal his religion is beside the point.
“Indeed I am. I thought I’d try out this whole ‘appropriate clothing’ thing I’ve heard about.”
“Well, you’ve at least mastered the ‘clothing’ part,” Chris quips. Darren catches Chris’ gaze flickering up and down his body and he knows when he’s being checked out. He grins.
“Baby steps,” Darren responds, and he sees that Chris’ cheeks are pink. He thinks that bodes well.
“Well, what can I help you with today?”
“Do you have any spare thyme?”
Chris blinks slowly and looks startled by the question. “Not…really. I’m–”
“–oh.” Darren’s shoulders slump.
“–kind of busy.”
“What?”
Chris tilts his head, clearly confused. “What?”
“I asked if you had any thyme. For my stew. I’m making an Irish stew.”
Chris blinks again – once, then twice – and Darren has no idea what’s going on. “Oh!” Chris exclaims. “Sorry. I thought you mean ‘time,’ like, if I had any time. For…something…” Chris’ hands flutter ineffectually in front of him and he blushes.
“Oh, shit.” Darren holds his own hands up. “Sorry, no, I meant, like, the herb. I mean, not no, like I wouldn’t want to do something. Because I totally would, if that’s what you thought I meant. Because, yeah.” Darren snaps his jaw shut against the flood of words.
Chris nods, but Darren can see the stress in his expression, like he doesn’t know why he said what he said, or why Darren answered the way he did. “Let me just get you that thyme, okay?”
“Awesome!”
Chris turns away, disappearing in his apartment, and Darren exhales loudly. He’s usually better at talking to people – even people he finds unnervingly attractive – than this. The upside, he supposes, is that given the way he caught Chris checking him out, Darren is pretty sure he’s not completely straight. Although that doesn’t mean much else.
Glancing inside, Darren once again sees a laptop open on the coffee table, surrounded by note cards and at least three pens.
“Hopefully this is enough.” Chris reappears suddenly and Darren jerks back. Chris’ eyes are keen and Darren knows Chris saw him peering into his apartment. Perhaps that makes them even.
“Hey, it’s fresh.” A few springs of thyme are in Chris’ hand and Darren knows his palms will smell of the herb.
Chris shrugs. “Made some chicken the other night.”
“Nice.”
Darren wants to linger, wants to keep the moment going, but Chris is staring at him expectantly and Darren has no other reason to be there. “Uhm, well, thanks again.”
“Anytime,” Chris responds, and something in the timbre of his voice tells Darren he means it.
***
Darren is okay at dating. Or at least he used to be, back when he used to do it more often. He doesn’t actually care much for it. The song and dance he prefers happens on the worn boards of a Broadway stage, not over a cramped table at a pretentious coffee shop, or an overpriced restaurant where he’s trying to impress someone he might not really like after all.
But he goes out to dinner with a guy from the Jersey Boys cast, because the guy is cute and caught him off guard and a little tipsy at Bar Centrale. All they end up doing is telling audition horror stories and not kissing at the end of the night. The next week he gets post-show drinks with his production stage manager’s nephew who’s been eyeing him for months. The kid almost knocks over his drink twice and Darren honestly can’t remember what they talked about.
And then there’s Chris.
Darren knocks on Chris’ door twice more over a few weeks: once to steal an honest to god cup of sugar for cookies and again for a can of black olives for pasta. (If Darren is completely honest with himself, he’s pretty sure he has a can of olives tucked in the dark recesses of the pantry, he just didn’t look that hard.)
If Chris is weirded out by Darren’s frequent visits, or his inability to check his cabinets before he starts to cook, he doesn’t show it. He just seems amused by Darren in general, smiling whenever he sees Darren at his door and humoring Darren’s strange requests.
Darren tries to flirt with him. He does. But he’s never been particularly good at it. He just likes to talk to people, to get to know them; he doesn’t want to deal in innuendo and subtle hints. And it doesn’t seem like Chris does either.
In all these weeks Darren still can’t figure much out about his neighbor. Chris is home during the day, can afford a moderately pricey Manhattan apartment, and watches Darren’s mouth when he talks. The last one is especially important. Because that, coupled with the way Chris’ gaze will flicker across his body, lingering on the parts where his clothing is the tightest, tells Darren that Chris isn’t wholly disinterested in him.
Darren supposes he could just ask Chris out, but his neighbor is still, in many ways, inscrutable. Darren doesn’t even know what Chris does for a living. It’s crossed Darren’s mind more than once that Chris might be an obnoxious trust fund brat who does nothing, but he really doesn’t seem like that kind of man.
After Chris hands over the can of black olives, he pauses, biting his lower lip, and Darren’s stomach knots in sudden anticipation for what he might say. It’s not like Chris has offered up much during their encounters. Perhaps he will now.
“Uhm, I like your show,” Chris says after a moment’s pause.
It’s not what Darren is expecting at all. “What?”
“The Glass Menagerie. I meant to say it when you first came over, but there just wasn’t an opportunity to bring it up.” Chris’ cheeks are pink and Darren is fucking touched.
“Oh, wow. Dude, thanks.”
Chris shrugs, as though it’s nothing. “I saw it a couple of months ago,” he says. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but I didn’t want you to think that it was the only reason that I, well…” Chris trails off and his blush stretches to his ears. “Anyway, the show was great. You were great.”
Excitement tightens in Darren’s stomach. “Man, that means a lot to me. Seriously.”
“It’s not flattery; it’s true.” Chris’ eyes have gone serious and Darren thinks he’s beautiful.
Darren got his first Tony nomination for that role, but he doesn’t need to point that out. Surely Chris knows. “I still appreciate it.”
Chris nods. “Well, good luck with that pasta,” he says, gesturing to the olives. “Hope it turns out.”
And once more, Darren wants to stay. He wants to ask Chris if he can come in, if they can have a drink, have a real conversation that doesn’t involve them standing on either side of a threshold while one of them holds a random bit of food. But he doesn’t ask, and Chris doesn’t invite him.
Darren spends the evening stuffing his face with too much linguini, flicking restlessly through Netflix, and thinking about Chris sitting in the audience at his show, watching him from the darkened orchestra.
***
He goes over a third time in those weeks, but Chris isn’t home, and Darren’s knock goes unanswered. The disappointment stays with Darren all night.
***
Darren looks for Chris, after that.
He keeps an eye out for him on the streets around their building, hoping to catch a glimpse of where Chris goes when he’s not at home, what he does. He lingers half a moment extra in the lobby when he gets his mail, pausing for another breath before he presses the button for the elevator, just in case he might catch Chris coming or going. They’d head to the same floor, after all. He’d have a chance to start a conversation without miscellaneous ingredients being involved. He’d get to say something else, something more.
But he doesn’t see him. Not wandering one down one of the winding pathways of the park. Not slipping out of a Starbucks on a chilly morning. Not waiting impatiently on a Subway platform.
It’s frustrating, and Darren thinks maybe it’s time to step up and try something different.
***
At the end of October, Darren has no reason to go over to Chris’ apartment on a Sunday night. He’s home from his matinee performance, he picked up sushi on the way so he didn’t have to cook, and he has no legitimate reason to wander down to the hall to knock on Chris’ door, except that he wants to.
Maybe it’s because they’d had an especially good show, maybe it’s because the people waiting for him at the stage door were kind and funny and genuine, or maybe it’s because he didn’t have to wait at all for train, but Darren is feeling good. He feels confident. There’s no reason he can’t just go down the hall and ask a boy out, a boy who might just say yes. Same as any other time he’s made a move. Almost.
The worst that can happen is Chris will say no. The thought of it makes Darren’s stomach clench unhappily, but he knows that a rejection will only result in no longer asking Chris for random pantry items and vague feelings of embarrassment any time he does run into Chris. What else can he lose?
As he puts his pants back on, Darren tells himself that he’ll never know if Chris really is interested in him if he doesn’t do something about it. So he might as well try.
It’s quiet in the hallway, but Darren catches the hum of voices coming from behind Chris’ door, excited voices, and it gives him pause. There’s never been anyone else at Chris’ place before, or at least not anyone that Darren’s noticed. He supposes, thinking about it, there might have been someone in the bathroom, or the bedroom. Someone waiting for Chris to get back to them once he was through with the weird neighbor. Belated jealousy blooms in Darren’s stomach, but he pushes it away and knocks firmly on the door.
Chris’ apartment is teeming with people, most of them a bit dressed up like they’re celebrating something worth putting the effort of not just throwing on jeans. A giant banner loudly proclaiming CONGRATULATIONS hangs from the wall: multi-colored, sparkling and obvious.
Cold flashes through Darren’s limbs.
“Darren, hi?” Confusion is writ across Chris’ face as he stands in the doorway. He’s wearing black dress pants, a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a tie. Darren has never seen him in a tie before. He looks beautiful.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know you had guests.”
“It’s uh, it’s no big deal. Just a little party.”
“Chris?” A new man’s voice calls out from inside and Chris glances away towards the sound.
Darren leans forward ever so, surreptitiously peering further into the apartment. A dark haired man with warm brown eyes and a bright smile is hovering nearby, gazing adoringly at Chris as he holds two flutes of champagne.
Darren’s heart finds his stomach.
“Yeah, I’m coming, Rob,” Chris calls back to the man, who nods and turns back to a group of party-goers.
Darren knows, he knows he shouldn’t assume anything about Chris and this guy and who they are to each other. But the party. The nice clothes. The champagne. The giant congratulatory banner hanging from the wall that doesn’t say happy birthday.
“So…what did you need this time?” Chris asks, smiling indulgently at him.
“What? Oh, uhm…” Darren thinks briefly about making something up, asking to borrow the first thing that comes to mind to make it seem like it’s why came over. But he can’t. All he can think about is the man with the champagne.
“You know what?” He says. “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it.”
Startled confusion passes across Chris’ fine features. “Oh, so, what are you–”
Darren takes a step back from the door and then another as he feels his face burn with embarrassment. “Sorry to bother you. Enjoy your party.”
“Darren, wait–”
But he’s already walking away, back to his own apartment. He doesn’t look back to see if Chris watches him go.
***
Darren mopes. He mopes and he drinks and he orders way too much take-out.
He almost forgets a line that week. In the middle of the first act he looks out to the audience and see a young man in the fourth row with brown hair and light eyes. The stage lights just barely illuminate the angles of his face and it’s enough to throw Darren off balance. The next words catch in his throat and his co-star glances at him with alarm present in her eyes. But Darren covers it well, he thinks, turning his moment of panic into deep reflection for his character.
“The hell was that?” His co-star asks him during intermission.
Darren blots the cold sweat from his brow and tries to shrug it off. “Just…thought I saw someone I knew.”
She doesn’t look like she believes him, and Darren doesn’t offer any other explanation.
He goes out to a noisy bar after the show to get drunk. He doesn’t care that he has a show the next night; he needs this, he thinks. Needs glass after glass and loud music drowning out his thoughts.
As 2am approaches, a man who looks a bit like Chris if Darren squints through his whiskey haze approaches him, and Darren almost lets the guy buy him a drink, almost lets him take him home. But he doesn’t.
A cab takes him home instead.
The hallway is quiet as Darren stumbles along and no sounds of merriment come from behind Chris’ door.
***
When Darren stops looking for Chris is when Chris finds him, standing at his mailbox one rainy afternoon, digging out a pile of magazines addressed to the previous tenant.
Darren doesn’t notice Chris waiting nearby until he’s closed his mailbox and taken a few steps towards the elevator.
“Hey,” Chris says, and Darren nearly drops his mail.
Chris looks tired, hair messy and clothes rumpled. Darren’s stomach tenses with nerves and his heartbeat stutters at the sight of him.
Darren grunts a wordless response and shuffles over to the elevator, punching the button a little too hard. He has nothing to say to Chris, nothing he wants to say, and his vain hope that Chris was leaving the building is trounced when Chris steps into the elevator with him.
Darren exhales as the doors close.
The elevator ride is some of the most uncomfortable 54 seconds of Darren’s life, right up there with the time he asked a girl out in a Starbucks and she said no, and he had to suffer through the rest of the line before he could escape. Darren stares at the wall and tries not to breathe in the cologne clinging to Chris’ skin and clothes.
The doors finally open on their floor and Darren nearly stumbles in his haste to get out of the elevator.
“Daren,” Chris calls out behind him, but he keeps walking to his front door. “Darren, please.”
He stops. The key almost in the lock.
Darren hears steps coming closer and his heart is pounding so loudly it must be echoing down the hallway. He finally turns to look at Chris.
His hair is sticking up worse than it was in the lobby, like he’d just run his hands through it. “I, uh…look,” Chris starts. “This is awkward. But I feel like you’re mad at me and–”
“I’m not mad,” Darren interrupts and the half-lie is bitter behind his teeth.
“–and I think it’s because there’s been, well, a misunderstanding.”
Darren shakes his head. He just wants to get inside and hide his shame in the bag of Halloween candy he bought two days ago. “Nope. Got it loud and clear.”
“Darren–”
“Really don’t worry about it, I didn’t mean to–”
“It was for the release of my book.”
That stops Darren short. “What?”
“The party. On Sunday.” Chris rubs his hands against his thighs. “My friends wanted to throw me a party for my latest book.”
Darren blinks. “You’re an author?”
Chris shrugs. “Yeah.”
It’s obvious now, or near enough. Chris always being home. The mess on his coffee table. The book-nerd shape of his glasses.
“I don’t think I’ve read any of your stuff,” Darren says, suddenly embarrassed by that too, and unable to think of anything else to say.
“It’s okay. I’m not offended or anything. You’re certainly not the only one.”
“Look,” Darren says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I gotta be honest; it kind of looked like an engagement party.”
Chris frowns. “Well, it wasn’t,” he stresses.
Darren searches Chris’ face, unsure of what he’s even looking for. But Chris is blushing a little, and his eyes seem a shade of hopeful, and Darren thinks about all the times he should have asked Chris out instead of asking for chia seeds.
“Okay, cool. Good.”
Chris tilts his head and blinks in that way that’s become familiar and Darren blushes.
“I mean, not cool. It’s not cool you’re not engaged to that guy, or anyone else for that matter. I mean, it is for me because – but not if you wanted to be engaged. Then it’s definitely not cool.” Darren stops. Exhales. His cheeks and ears are burning.
“Right.” Chris is smirking now, terribly amused by his rambling, and it makes Darren smile in relief.
“Uhm, well, congratulations on the book though, and your…not engagement.”
Chris snorts. “Thanks.”
“I’d like to read something of yours,” Darren says.
“I’ll give you a copy.”
Darren nods and an awkward silence stretches down the hallway. The magazines stick to his palm where he’s been sweating and his keys have grown heavy in his hand. He supposes this is the end of the conversation, a sudden stop the way all of their meetings have ended. He supposes he’ll go inside, break into a bottle of whiskey, and try to forget about whatever this was, and wasn’t.
But Chris’ next words stop him.
“Darren, can I–you were going to ask me out, weren’t you?”
Darren freezes. “What?”
“Before.” Chris takes a step closer to him and Darren can see the freckles across his nose. His eyes are gentle, curious, and he is beautiful. “When you came over that day and I thought you just needed another ingredient for whatever random thing you were cooking. Or pretending to cook. But you were going to ask me out, weren’t you?”
Darren’s heart is beating so hard it hurts, and there is no point in lying. “I was,” he admits.
Chris comes even closer and his fingertips flutter against Darren’s wrist. His pulse pounds in response. “Darren?”
“Yeah?” The word almost catches in his throat and he swallows heavily.
“Do you want to get coffee or dinner or something? Somewhere outside of this apartment hallway.”
Happiness breaks open in Darren’s chest, so bright he almost laughs. “Yeah, I do.”
Chris smiles. “And will you cook for me one night? You have taken half my kitchen from me.”
Darren laughs then, and turns his wrist until he can tangle their fingers together. “I think I can rustle something up. Might need some help though.”
Chris squeezes his hand. “Anything for a neighbor.”
