by Olivia Dade
Alex shoved a rough hand through his hair, his scowl thunderous.
Nope. No nap occurring anytime soon.
“I’ll go get us some ice,” Marcus offered. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
“Nope. I’m going to plot out a fic where Cupid’s arrow makes a horrible, insulting woman so eager to fuck herself that she can’t eat or drink, just masturbate, and then she dies of masturbatory malnutrition.” He paused, thoughtful. “Or maybe she’ll just pass out and learn her lesson. I don’t usually kill people in my stories.”
That was Marcus’s cue. “Okay, I’ll be back soon. Try not to get fired while I’m gone, please.”
“No promises,” Alex muttered, and bent over his phone again.
The conference hotel was built around an atrium that rose to skylights far above, the hallways on each floor open to that central square and looking down on the madness below. According to the hotel map on the inside of the door, the ice machine was located on the exact opposite side of his floor’s square, as far away as possible.
Fine. He could use a few minutes of quiet.
The door shut behind him with a bang. Bucket tucked under his arm, Marcus wandered to the other side of the hallway and glanced idly down at reception. Most of the Gates cast and crew in attendance at the con should be arriving shortly, so he checked for familiar faces.
The chances were infinitesimal, with thousands of people crowding the hotel.
Still, there she was. Tiny but recognizable down below. Almost at the front of the check-in line, suitcase by her side, waiting patiently as the discreet lobby lighting set her hair ablaze.
He’d desperately hoped she’d come. Prayed she wouldn’t.
But he’d known what she’d decide to do, in the end. April wasn’t a woman to abandon her responsibilities, and she’d agreed to moderate Summer’s Q&A session and meet their—her—friends from the Lavineas server at the conference. She wouldn’t skip the event, even if she wanted to.
And maybe she wouldn’t mind being near him again. Maybe her gut hadn’t been seething with almost-constant nausea since their confrontation. Maybe she didn’t find herself sleepless and replaying their last conversation in her head, searching for what she could have said differently, regretting the choices she’d made weeks and months before.
She might be fine. On his less selfish days, he even hoped she was fine.
He was not.
After that horrible car ride, he no longer visited the Lavineas server, even invisibly. Seeing her name, her avatar, turned his lingering nausea acute. Even writing fanfic evoked too many memories now—of Ulsie’s careful, cheerful beta-reading comments, of April’s glee at particularly smutty stories, of the community he’d helped create and then lost.
April hadn’t posted a story on AO3 since he’d left. He didn’t know if he’d have the heart to read it if she did.
The sources of joy and meaning in his life seemed to be extinguishing one by one, and he had only himself to blame. No wonder his stomach was roiling, his head throbbing daily.
From his spot far above, he watched her take her turn at check-in. He watched her wait as they ran her credit card and checked her ID. He watched her accept her room keycard and head for the elevators, where she passed out of his sight.
Then he trudged down the halls to the ice machine, filled the bucket, and tried not to remember why his life had become as cold and hard as the ice rattling with each step he took.
Moments after he returned to the room, though, his own wretched, unceasing heartbreak dulled in the face of fresh disaster. This time, in the form of a single, terrible email.
“How long does it take to get ice?” Alex asked as the door swung shut. “Did you personally trek to the Arctic tundra and cut the cubes yourself?”
He was still on the bed, still hunched over his phone. Still, evidently, determined to fill every spare moment with conversation.
“The machine is on the other side of the—” Marcus sighed. “Never mind. I’m sorry I took so long.”
A quick check of the bedside clock dashed all remaining hope of a nap. The two of them had, at best, ten minutes to rest before heading downstairs for their first scheduled appearances.
“Fuck,” Alex groaned. “I have a new message from Ron. The subject line is ‘Inappropriate behavior and possible consequences.’ As if I don’t know what horrible things they could—”
Abruptly, his mouth slammed shut, and his brows drew together.
As Marcus watched, concerned, Alex scrolled down. Then back up again, apparently rereading the message, and down a second time.
His breathing changed, becoming rough and fast, until he was blowing out air like that maddened bull Ron and R.J. had incorporated into the fourth season for no good reason.
Red flags of color stained his cheeks, which was never, ever a good sign.
“Those motherfuckers,” he whispered. “Those cruel motherfuckers.”
Alex was going to tell him all about it anyway, probably at an uncomfortable volume, so Marcus took his friend’s phone and slowly, painstakingly, read the message for himself.
Unacceptable rudeness to a fan, in violation of behavioral expectations, blah blah blah. Contractual obligations, blah blah blah. Nothing too surprising or untoward, and nothing that would elicit the sort of reaction Alex—
Oh.
Oh.
At the bottom of the message, Ron had added a less legalistic addendum.
P.S. I suppose this is our fault, for saddling you with such an ugly minder. Tell Lauren to put a bag over it, if she has to, but stop letting her face get you in trouble. Although that doesn’t fix the rest of her, right?
Ron had added a crying-laughter emoji to the end.
They’d also cc’ed Lauren. Those cruel motherfuckers, indeed.
Shit. Marcus needed to fix this, or at least buy them some time. Without giving his friend’s phone back, if at all possible.
They didn’t have many minutes left before Alex’s first scheduled event, but he couldn’t go onstage in this state, and he certainly couldn’t be trusted to send a professional, non-career-ending reply to such a casually cruel message. Not until he’d had time to calm himself.
What were their reasonable options? “Listen, Alex, why don’t we take a walk before—”
“No time.” Color still high, his friend got to his feet, put on his shoes with two quick shoves, and prowled toward the suite’s door. “Let’s get going. I have a Q&A session to attend. You can keep the phone for now.”
Marcus slipped the cell into his jeans pocket, as close as possible to his crotch, where retrieving it would require the sort of intimacy he and Alex didn’t share.
Which was . . . good?
So why did Alex’s relinquishment of the phone only make Marcus more nervous?
Down the endless hallways they marched, Marcus offering smiles to fans and blaming Alex’s upcoming session for their unwillingness to pause for selfies.
Alex, uncharacteristically, didn’t say a word. He just looked straight ahead and strode down the corridors, every movement efficient and forceful.
Mere minutes ago, on his way back from the ice machine, Marcus had contemplated watching the first few minutes of Alex’s Q&A session from the wings of the stage, then escaping back to their room for a long-awaited, well-deserved, unconscious respite from both his misery and Alex’s endless talking.
Now he wasn’t going anywhere. Not when they reached Alex’s assigned hall. Not when the moderator and conference organizers greeted them with effusive courtesy. Not when they were both ushered backstage and shown seats neither of them used.
After another minute of silence, Marcus tried again. “I know you’re angry, but—”
“Don’t worry.” His friend’s voice was cool, in contrast to those livid stripes of color on his cheekbones. “I’ll be fine.”
Which was somehow both more and less reassurance than Marcus had hoped to receive.
When the mod
erator announced Alex, he nodded once at Marcus and strode onto that stage as if he were entering a boxing ring.
This was—
Marcus moved closer to the edge of the curtains, until he could see his best friend pacing with a microphone in hand, rather than sitting next to the moderator. That smile, gleaming through his shaggy beard, was wild and sharp and familiar.
It usually preceded something apocalyptic.
This was very, very bad.
Lauren had been given a special seat at the end of the front row, and she was watching Alex carefully, her brow furrowed even more than usual. Perched on the edge of her folding chair, she appeared poised to do . . . something. Throw herself in front of him, maybe, or yank him from the stage.
Despite her evident worry and Marcus’s own concerns, however, the session proceeded normally. Maybe Alex’s answers were a bit crisper than normal, and maybe his high color never faded completely, but he was charming and intelligent and everything the showrunners wanted him to be in public.
At least, until the final question of the session.
The woman in the third row was nearly shaking with nervousness, but she stood and stammered out her query anyway. “Wh-what can you tell us about the final season?”
“Your question is about the final season, correct? You’re asking what I can share about it?” Alex’s grin burned even brighter under the stage lights, and Marcus knew. Somehow, he just knew. “Thank you for such a fantastic closing question. I’d be delighted to answer.”
Marcus was already moving toward the center of the stage, already attempting to formulate some excuse, any excuse, to pull his friend away, but it was too late. He was too late. So was Lauren, who shot to her feet at the first sign of trouble.
All they could do was stop and watch and listen, horrified, as Alex endangered his entire goddamn career in a towering rage.
“As you know, cast members aren’t allowed to say much about episodes that haven’t aired yet.” His anarchic, fury-filled beam in place, he stopped pacing and spoke clearly and distinctly to the cameras capturing his every word for live streams worldwide. “However, if you’re interested in my thoughts about our final season, you may want to consult my fanfiction. I write under the name CupidUnleashed. All one word, capital C, capital U.”
Other than a few scattered gasps at the announcement, there wasn’t a sound from the audience. Not one. Arms wrapped around her torso, face screwed up in horror, Lauren dropped back into her seat and hunched in on herself.
With a courtly flourish, Alex set down his microphone on the seat he’d been provided but failed to use. Then he raised a forefinger and picked up the mic again.
“Oh,” he added breezily, “those stories will also give you some insight into my feelings about the show in general.”
Lauren had covered her face with both hands, her head bowed.
A long pause as his smile improbably broadened. “Also, fair warning: Cupid gets pegged in my fics. Delightedly and often. It’s not great literature, but it’s still better than some of this season’s—” He winked at the audience then, allowing them to fill in the word for him: scripts. “Well, never mind about that.”
Because of the live streams, because of the cell phones recording his session, there could be no denying his words later, no way to spin them except as he’d intended them. Provocation, deliberate and pointed.
There was a faint whimpering sound then, and if Marcus had to guess, he’d say it originated from Lauren.
Alex waited another moment, head tilted in thought. Then he smiled one last time.
“No, that’s everything.” Another little bow. “I’m done.”
He strode offstage to the sound of shocked murmuring and stopped next to Marcus, his body exuding unbelievable heat. Eyes clenched shut, he was once again heaving out breaths like that bull, ready to scrape the ground and charge.
“Alex.” When his friend didn’t respond, Marcus tried again. “Alex.”
This time, Alex managed to focus on him.
“You really are done, unless you find a way to do damage control immediately.” He laid a careful hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in the room as soon as the photo sessions are finished, but you need to call your agent and your lawyer and anyone else in your camp who can help. Right now.”
Alex’s eyes closed again, and his shoulders finally dropped. He nodded.
“I know,” he said, his voice resigned but not apologetic. “I know.”
Lavineas Server
Thread: WTAF Is Up with This Season’s Scripts?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: There are so many issues. So many.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I still don’t understand why the showrunners moved the story from ancient Rome to quasi-medieval Europe. (Yes, I know what BAWN will say.)
Mrs. Pius Aeneas: “Trying to ride the coattails of Game of Thrones.”
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Exactly. But even a thousand years later, people weren’t saying “stressed out.” Even *I*, a woman who does NOT dabble in canon, know THAT.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Thank you for saying it so I didn’t have to, MPA.
TopMeAeneas: Even apart from all the anachronisms, the dialogue just seems so much more . . . rudimentary? . . . than in the first three seasons.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: That’s not a coincidence. One book per season. Three books.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: The showrunners never understood the characters. They relied on the books and the actors. Now the books are gone, and the actors will do their best to sell what they’re given, but they can’t simply make up plots and dialogue.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: At least, that’s the rumor. I don’t know for sure.
28
APRIL SKIPPED ALEX’S Q&A SESSION, SCARED SHE MIGHT see Marcus there. Afterward, though, she couldn’t avoid hearing about it.
“He just . . . announced it,” a guy with stylized wings on his tee said to a circle of his friends, looking shocked but titillated. Cupid Gets Shit Done, No Diaper Needed, the shirt read. “Without any prompting. And apparently his fics all include pegging?”
Edging behind a large potted plant, April listened to the fourth iteration of this conversation she’d encountered in the last ten minutes, hoping to glean some piece of information—anything—that might mitigate her worries for Alex.
A young woman with Psyche’s trademark circlet on her head crinkled her brow. “Pegging?”
Another fan, her T-shirt emblazoned with a map of the underworld, beckoned the first woman closer and whispered in her ear for a minute.
“Oh.” The Psyche fan blinked. “Oh.”
At her expression and pinkening face, they all laughed.
“Filming for the final season’s done, right?” Another of their friends, a fortysomething man with a plastic sword strapped to his hip, sounded highly entertained. “At this point, can they still fire him?”
Cupid Tee snorted. “Maybe not, but they can sue him. I’d be shocked if they didn’t.”
When the group began moving toward one of the halls for their photo sessions, April didn’t follow, and she didn’t attempt to eavesdrop on any more conversations. They all contained the same basic information, and they all offered her one inevitable conclusion.
Alex was fucked.
She was now glad she’d missed his session, and she did not intend to watch any of the countless YouTube clips uploaded within minutes of the incident. If Alex was sometimes an asshole, he was also loyal and funny and entertaining. She liked him. And she had no desire to watch him throw away his life’s work in a fit of what—according to onlookers—seemed to be total, mysterious, grinning rage.
Which didn’t mean she wasn’t looking up his fanfiction. Immediately. If anyone in the Gates universe needed a good pegging, Cupid was definitely that character.
As she began edging toward the elevators, she drew more than a few stares and whispers, as she had from the moment of her arrival earlier that afternoon.
Even after a couple of hours at the hotel, and despite her mental preparation, all the attention still disoriented her. Some of her fellow con attendees merely looked, or took pics and videos from afar, and she could live with that. But the people who approached her with comments and queries and entirely too much familiarity for her comfort . . .
She wanted to hide from them. Not because she was shy, or ashamed of herself or her appearance or her former relationship with Marcus.
Because she was grieving. Because speaking Marcus’s name hurt. Because the winks, the innuendo, the excited questions were streams of salt poured into wounds that hadn’t even begun healing.
“Is that . . .” a woman in a Dido’s Vengeance Tour: 1000 BCE tee hissed, elbowing her friend. “That’s the fan Marcus Caster-Rupp was dating. We should ask her—”
April walked faster.
Suffice it to say, some time alone wouldn’t come amiss, even though this was only the first night of the con. Thank fuck she hadn’t accepted room-sharing invitations from the Lavineas crew, even TopMeAeneas.
After retreating gratefully to her quiet, peaceful hotel room, she took off her shoes and propped herself comfortably against the headboard. Finishing all of Alex’s fics would only take a couple of hours, if she was judging his word count correctly, and she was more than willing to devote that much time to them. She didn’t particularly want to answer more questions about Marcus in the near future.
In the end, she was reading at her laptop for longer than two hours. Much, much longer. Until she’d missed all the remaining scheduled events for the evening, and giggling groups of Gates fans were no longer stumbling down the hall and shushing each other at top volume.
Alex’s stories were fascinating. More than that. Revelatory, in so many ways.
Before each of his fics, he thanked his faithful beta reader and fellow writer, AeneasLovesLavinia. The laws of probability informed her who that author had to be. BAWN, unwilling to use his former pen name, lest he draw her attention to his continuing presence online and hurt her further. Marcus, either unable or unwilling to stop writing.