Time Passing

by Orianne

Tony spotted Greg sitting near the Heathrow terminal exit, his elbows resting on his knees and his suitcase tucked behind his feet.

*He looks the same,* Tony thought, *Almost exactly the same.* Though the sharp lines of Greg's face were softened by the weight he'd put on and the large black spectacles that Tony remembered had been replaced by narrow purple-tinted ones, he still looked younger than he actually was, still had that intense, seeking expression. It was the same as when they'd first met, twelve years ago.

They had met at a party at Josie's, just before the episode taping. The flat was small; there were people pressed up against the walls. Greg had managed to wedge himself into a corner, drink in hand. Tony had only noticed him when Mike pointed him out.

"That's my buddy from back home. He'll be joining us tomorrow. Here, I'll introduce you."

They'd been introduced, and though Greg was polite and charming, they hadn't had much of a chance to talk. Tony had drifted off to another corner of the flat, and Mike had stayed with Greg. The only other time Tony had spoken to Greg that night was when he'd gone out on the balcony to get some air and spotted Greg leaning over the railing, staring at the street below.

"Oh, hello," Tony had said. "It's a bit crowded in there, isn't it? How are you enjoying yourself?"

Greg had turned around. At that moment he'd looked no more than nineteen, coltish and nervous. "Oh, it's fine, you know. Just needed to get out for a second." He'd smiled faintly. "I've got the feeling I'm not in Kansas anymore."

Tony was immediately endeared. In an odd way, he'd identified with Greg. When he watched Greg on and off stage, hiding his nerves behind sarcasm, trying to fit in, it reminded him of his own days at Cambridge, where he'd spent just as much time trying not to look like the boy from the housing estate as studying. He'd decided that Greg needed a mentor to help him through, just as he had. When Greg stopped needing a mentor, it seemed like a waste to stop being a friend, and when the friendship had turned into a love affair, it seemed comfortable and effortless. And then it had all gone wrong.

Tony shook his head, pulling himself out of the memories. He walked across the airport terminal floor and stopped a few feet in front of Greg's chair. Now that it was actually happening, he was strangely calm, instead of the gibbering nervous wreck he'd thought he would turn into. "Been waiting long?" he said.

Greg looked up, met Tony's eyes for a minute and looked down. He examined the suitcase behind his feet and stood up. Tony waited for him to make the first move. He watched Greg trying to decide what to do with his hands.

"Hi, Tony," Greg said finally, and hugged him with one arm, keeping the other one by his chest, preventing them from coming into full contact.

"How was the flight?" Tony said.

"Long. I swear, since everything happened, it's like planes only fly about two miles an hour, like that'll help if anything goes down." Greg paused. "You look all right. You working on anything?"

Americans were all the same. When they didn't know what else to say, they asked about work. Tony smiled and said, "Well, I mustn't grumble. Would you like to get a coffee or something?"

"I think I'm all right." Greg picked up his suitcase. "You parked near here?"

"This way." Tony walked towards the carpark.

He doubted Greg had willingly agreed to stay with him after the way things had ended. The only reason he'd extended the invitation was because Mike had bullied him into it.

"Look," Mike had said, a month ago. "You're both going to be with the Players, so you're going to have to talk to each other anyway. And he's got no place to stay."

"I'm sure Richard or someone can put him up."

"Not this time. For a variety of reasons, Tony, he can't stay with anyone else. It's either stay with you or go into a hotel, and he hates hotels."

"Mike, we haven't spoken since he left England. I'm sure he'd be happy staying elsewhere."

Mike had sighed. "I'm not asking you to fall sobbing on his neck---"

"Thank God."

"All I'm saying is that you should at least extend an invitation. Stop acting like a kid with a grudge. I'll ask him for you." Mike paused. "You know, it's been a long time, Tony. You should at least try to talk."

He suspected Mike had used the same tactic to convince Greg. In any event, Greg was here now, and he would be staying with Tony for three days. He opened the boot of his car and let Greg stow his suitcase before opening the car doors.

"How's Mike been doing?" Tony said as Greg slouched down into the passenger side and lit a cigarette.

"Mike? He's fine. We talk every once in a while. He's coming out here in a couple of months or something, from what I understand."

"So tell me what you've been doing with yourself," Tony said.

Greg glanced at him and then looked away. "You mean, everything I've been doing since I left?" There was a tartness in the question. Greg added quickly, "'Cause we'd be here all day if I went into everything, man."

"Whatever you deem most important."

"It's not that much. There's the show with Drew, then there's my show, the dating show, and every so often I go out and do standup. The rest---" He shrugged. "I've done a couple one-offs, you know, but they're all kind of the same. I show up and they put makeup on me and give me free food, basically."

"Sounds like you've got a lot on your plate."

Greg stubbed his cigarette out. "Not really. If I was twenty years old I'd probably be bored. Now that I'm pushing seven hundred, it wears on me a little more."

"You look better than I do," Tony said dryly.

Greg shrugged. "Whatever. But everything's fine."

"I'd never thought you'd be the one doing a dating show," Tony said.

"Yeah. Sold my soul completely. The girl who hosts it with me's a sweetheart, though. Ellen. The kind of girl my mother wanted me to marry." Greg looked out the window. "Where are you living now?"

"St. John's Wood."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Muy posh, man."

"Costs every spare limb to rent. But it's big, so you can come and go as you please if you like." Tony regretted saying that. It sounded as though he were asking Greg to leave him alone.

Greg was silent for a minute. "You staying with anyone?" He sounded hopeful.

"No. Just myself."

"Oh." Greg lit another cigarette and looked back at the window. "Man, look at that sky. It never changes, you know? I come back to England and I almost lose my mind."

Tony had a flash of memory: Greg lying beside him, smiling lazily, saying, "Whenever I look at you, I just about lose my mind." Tony pulled himself away from it and said, "I always forget to look at the sky." They didn't speak for the rest of the drive.

*****

"Would you like a drink?" Tony said, after they'd climbed the stairs to his flat and had stood in the living room staring at each other for a few minutes. "It might be a bit early, but after the flight, you might need it."

"What time is it?"

Tony looked at his watch. "It's half noon."

"Christ, it feels earlier." Greg lifted his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. "Yeah, a drink, why not. Do you have any beer or anything?"

"I believe so." Tony headed into the kitchen. They were being too polite, dancing around each other. Tony wished he wasn't skittish about confrontation.

"Is it okay if I smoke in here?" Greg called from the living room.

He said, still distracted, "Yes, of course. There's an ashtray on the table." Then he looked around for alcohol. He had bottles of Mexican beer in the refrigerator and bottled Guinness on the sideboard. He opened one of each and went back out to Greg.

Greg looked at the Guinness in Tony's hand nervously before accepting the bottle of Sol but didn't say anything. Americans tended to be all-or-nothing, Tony thought. It was either you did drugs and drink or you lived on water and health food. Tony took a swallow of Guinness, waiting for Greg to speak.

"This is a nice place," Greg said, moving over to the table. "It's cool you snagged it."

"It is all right," Tony said. "A bit nicer than I'd prefer it, actually. It's like being in one of those museums, isn't it? I expect to go into the toilet and find velvet ropes curtaining everything off."

He was trying to make Greg laugh, to get him to stop being polite. But Greg just said, "Yeah, you know. It's nicer than what I'm used to, too. My old place wasn't nearly this big." He took a long drink from his beer. "Good old Hampstead."

"If you'd like a sandwich or anything I have some things," Tony said. "Get something in you on top of the drink."

Greg frowned and then shook his head. "No, thanks, I'm okay. I actually might lie down for a while, if that's all right. The jet lag's kicking in."

"Oh, sorry. Your room's just there." Tony pointed down the hall. "Bed's all made up."

"Thank you. What time should we be at the Store tomorrow, again?"

"Two."

"Okay." Greg picked up his suitcase and shuffled down the hall. Tony swallowed the rest of his Guinness and threw it away.

He went down the hall to his room. The guest room door was opened a crack. Tony could see Greg sitting on the bed, his glasses off, smoking and staring at nothing.

Tony shut the door to his room. He thumbed through one of his medical journals and tried to avoid what he had to do, which was go into that room and talk to Greg. It was going to be a long few days if he didn't.

He knew exactly why things had gone wrong. When the depression began, he'd done his best to put anything in his body that would make him feel something, make him start caring about people again. That was where the coke came in. When the coke stopped working, he'd shut down completely.

He'd done coke with Greg once, thinking that he might as well have a partner in crime. The plan was dashed ten minutes after Greg's first hit; he'd wound up lying on Tony's couch, pouring sweat, Tony too out of it to do anything more than hold his hand, giggling hysterically as Greg gasped, "Tony, man, you've got to take me to the hospital, I'm dying, Tony, I swear to Christ I'm dying."

When it was over, Greg had taken a deep breath and said, "I think I'll stick to pot from now on."

When it had become too much trouble to have a lover, when all he wanted to do was sink into the mud, he'd gotten rid of Greg. He'd stood in his flat and snarled abuse, wanting nothing more than for Greg to explode back, to take him down like a heckler at a show. Greg knew him too well to give him what he wanted. He had simply gone cold and calm, his face hardening, and then he would leave, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for a week, until Tony felt the horrors creeping in. When that happened, he would call Greg back. He would apologize madly and Greg would whisper jokes and encouragement, holding Tony's shoulders as though he were keeping him above water.

Finally, he just stopped calling Greg back. He wanted to destroy himself on his own terms.

The last time he'd heard Greg's voice was just before he left England for good. There had been some trouble with his work permit; he was being deported. He'd left a message on Tony's answerphone.

"Tony, it's me. I need to talk to you. I'm going home. I'll be back---fuck, I don't know. Just give me a call, please." A long pause. "Tony, if you do one fucking thing in your life, you'll do this for me." Greg's voice had a tendency to grow shrill when he was upset, and by the end of the message it had been piercing, the desperation breaking through.

He'd never picked up the phone, though he played the answerphone tape until it disintegrated. Lost in that monstrous selfish haze that he'd descended into, he'd been almost happy that Greg was miserable too.

And now Greg was in his flat, waiting.

"Bloody self-indulgence," Tony whispered to himself, closing the journal. He stood up and went to talk to Greg.

The door was still ajar; he could see Greg sitting on the bed. He knocked anyway. "Yeah?" Greg's voice said.

"Could I come in?"

"Yeah."

Tony opened the door wider. Greg was still sitting with his back against the wall. He turned his head to look at Tony. Without the trendy glasses, he looked his age; his eyes had fine lines etched into the corners. The skin below them sagged slightly. He looked worn.

"Did you sleep?"

Greg shook his head, swinging his legs onto the floor. "Nah, man. It's perverse. I can sleep anywhere if I don't need to, but once I need it, it ain't going to happen."

"Perhaps it's just being in a new place."

"I've gotten used to being rootless."

"Perhaps it's me."

Greg was silent for a long time. "I don't know."

Tony took a step into the room. "Could I sit down?"

"It's your place, man."

Tony sat at the foot of the bed. "We had some good times."

"We did have some good times."

"And then..."

Greg groaned. "Let's not go into it, okay?"

"All right."

Still not looking at him, Greg said, "You know, when I was a kid, I thought I could, like, control the moon?"

"I don't follow you."

"You know. I used to stand and just look out the window, waiting to see the moon. And on the nights when it didn't come out, I thought, well, I must have fucked something up. And on the nights when it did, I used to wonder what I'd done to make it come out. It fucking drove me nuts, wondering what I'd done right and what I'd done wrong. Nearly drove my parents nuts too."

"What happened?"

Greg shrugged and looked at him. "Just grew up. There's always going to be something you can't control, right?"

"It seems that way." He put his hand on Greg's shoulder. Greg shifted slightly but didn't move. The muscles in his shoulder were taut. "I'm sorry, Greg."

Greg smiled sadly at him. "I know, buddy," he said. "I'm sorry too."

~End~

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