Work Text:
The television sparked to life. The quality was fuzzy and the sound was a bit low but it would have to do. Phil Proctor’s damp, dark and tiny flat was illuminated by the artificial blue hue. He tried his best to ignore how it enhanced the appearance of the black mold growing along the skirting boards.
Phil tried to push down his pride as an episode of The Bill started playing, an episode he had starred in. He’d had a proper viewing party the night before, including his family and real friends, but he thought it would be rude not to invite his current theatre company to celebrate as well.
The members of Legs Akimbo sat in his apartment late one Friday night nursing a few lagers. It might sound like a crowded affair, however Legs Akimbo theatre company was only compromised of three people, Phil being one. Dave Parkes sat to his right, watching intently waiting for his peer to appear on screen, and Ollie Plimsolls sat at his left, stewing away with bubbling envy.
When he made his entrance on screen, Phil couldn’t help but watch Ollie out of the corner of his eye. He was sitting cross legged (with shoes he’d refused to take off digging into the sofa), the position making him look impossibly smaller. His face was one of pure jealousy and hatred, brow furrowed so hard it was nearly pushing his revoltingly large spectacles down the bridge of his nose. He was gripping his can with such fury, Phil vaguely wondered if the smaller man had the strength to crush it.
He couldn’t help a slight satisfied smirk. This tiny bit of televised acting infuriated Ollie so much, it almost felt like payback for the years of verbal (and sometimes physical) abuse he’d been subjected to by the Legs Akimbo manager. This one small role was more than Ollie had achieved in his whole career, and that fact was eating him up inside.
They watched on in near silence aside from Dave poking his shoulder and giving him a big grin whenever he’d say his lines. Phil found it quiet embarrassing watching yourself act. All he could think was Oh God, do I really sound like that? and Is that really what I look like?
After the 30 minute episode was over, the screen faded to black and credits rolled. Phil let out a contented sigh as he heard Dave break out into a raucous applause. At least one of them enjoyed it.
“So, what did you think?” he asked nervously, aiming the question mostly at Dave, not bothering to cast a glance in Ollie’s direction.
“Brilliant! It’s a start, isn’t it? I’m sure casting directors everywhere are saying “Get me that handsome blonde one from tonight’s Bill””, Dave enthusiastically thumped him on the shoulder, and the compliment was much appreciated after half an hour of near silence.
Phil sighed with relief and finally looked over at Ollie. Surprisingly, he didn’t look angry or bitter, not at all like he wanted to punch Phil square between the eyes, Ollie looked utterly defeated. Like someone had taken a pin to him and let all the air out; dejected and meek. It was a sad sight and one Phil wasn’t expecting.
“Ollie?” he said quietly, genuine concern in his voice.
Ollie snapped out of his depressing stupor and switched right into acting mode, leaping into action and plastering a wide grin on his face.
“Superb, Phil! I thought it was great!” he said cheerfully, and Phil actually thought for a moment he was getting a genuine compliment from Ollie, until he continued;
“I will say, though, it lacked warmth. I didn’t feel in touch with your character. You’re emotions weren’t convincing to me.”
“Oh, shut up, Ollie,” Dave interrupted, making his way over to the mini fridge in the corner for another beer.
“No no, Dave, you know what they say; all criticism is good criticism.”
“Publicity.” He corrected sharply. Phil saw Ollie’s eye twitch dangerously.
“Well, whatever the saying is, I think Phil would like some pointers, yes?” he cast his attention to Phil, “You know, get some tips from a seasoned professional like myself?”
Phil gritted his teeth in annoyance and went to join Dave over by the fridge, finally fed up with how close Ollie was gesticulating to his face.
“I actually wouldn’t, Ollie. I really only invited you to prove a point. To show you that I can act and have a good career ahead of me,” his irritation was getting worse, as he watched Ollie spill droplets of beer down his sofa whenever he made sudden hand movements.
“All I’m saying is I, personally, wouldn’t have made many of the acting choices you did-"
"But you didn't, did you, Ollie? You've never been offered a single part, you had to fight to even get cast in the Nativity back in school! Why can't you be happy for me, just once?” Phil shouted, finally snapping at the smaller man’s provocation. Ollie’s face dropped.
He knew it was beneath him, knew he shouldn’t say it, but he added as a final blow: “I’m not in the mood to be lectured by a divorcee in a statement jumper.”
The divorce from Linda had been extremely hard on Ollie, they all knew that. The fact was practically crammed down their throat, what with the yelling, the beatings and the occasional tears he subjected them to. His divorce was basically all they’d heard him talk about for the last year, and taking all that into account Phil knew he’d made a grave mistake, despite Dave’s snickering.
A few possibilities entered his mind: Ollie swearing and screaming at him, his television being kicked in, his head being slammed into a wall, or even Ollie pulling out a gun from somewhere and making sure none of them left alive. The last thing he expected was a calm and collected Ollie Plimsolls to uncross his legs, smooth out his jumper and, with an evil smirk, say:
“Well, we all know how you got the role, anyway. I hope it was worth getting bummed, you slag.”
Something about that was more infuriating then any violence Ollie could’ve inflicted on him. Something about the smug smile and the vile glint in his eye made Phil’s blood run hot, and, before he knew it, the can of larger previously in his hand was being launched directly at Ollie’s head.
It connected with a harsh crack. Before Phil’s brain could even register what he had just done, Ollie was on him. The little twat was a fast mover, and surprisingly strong given the size of him.
There were a few times, whether it be in rehearsals or in their social life, where Phil wondered if Ollie had it in him to kill a man. He’d seen the mad look of pure mania he had in his eyes, and he had concluded; yes. Yes he did.
So now that Ollie had pounced on top of him, landing harsh blows to his cheekbone and chest, shrieking at the top of his lungs, Phil had reason to be genuinely scared for his life.
After about the seventh punch, Dave wrestled the little bastard off him. Even while firmly in his grasp he still kicked and screamed like a toddler, demanding to be let go so he could pummel Phil to death.
Phil lay on the carpet in a daze, only vaguely aware that Dave had pinned Ollie to the sofa and was repeatedly telling him to calm down, despite his frantic wriggling. Luckily, he’d received no blows to the head, so he wasn’t dizzy or concussed when he eventually had the strength to sit up.
When he locked eyes with Ollie again, he looked like a madman. A steady flow of blood was pouring out of a small gash in his forehead, matting his blonde fringe. The left lens of his glasses was cracked and he stared at Phil with the eyes of a wild animal, panting like one who’d just returned from a hunt.
“Jesus…" he whispered, both at the state of Ollie and the fact that he was the one who’d made him bleed like that.
There was a tense moment of silence when everyone was catching their breath. Phil found the strength to rise to his feet. Ollie, who was still being pinned down by Dave, did not stop glaring at Phil, his eyes following every movement. If looks could kill, Phil would be dead and buried.
“Ollie…?” Dave questioned in a light tone, trying to draw his attention, “I’m going to let you go now, okay? If you try and jump on Phil again I’ll have to sedate you like last time, remember?”
No, it wasn’t the first time this had happened. And it probably wouldn’t be the last.
Ollie licked a bead of sweat off his lip and silently nodded.
“Okay…” Dave cooed, slowly taking his weight off of Ollie’s arms and legs. He looked over at Phil to make sure they were both ready. It felt sort of like watching a feral cat being released.
They both flinched as Ollie sat up, but all he did was push his broken glasses up his nose and retrieve a tissue from his pocket. He carefully dabbed a bit blood that had dropped near his eye and examined it closely.
“Maybe we should get you two to the hospital?” Dave suggested.
Phil and Ollie both shouted a frantic: “No!” in unison.
Phil had always hated hospitals, and it was no surprise that Ollie didn’t want to go back to one so soon. Not after he angered an audience member so much she broke his nose, and he was then so rude to the nurses treating him they spiked his pain meds with laxatives. It was a mystery as to why no one had made an attempt on Ollie’s life yet, he could be such an insufferable twat.
Another moment of silence took the room.
“Well, I’m sorry, Phil, but I’m gonna call it a night, then. My therapist says it’s bad to be in this many high stress situations. Come on, Ollie, I’ll call you a taxi,” Dave said, outstretching his arm so that the smaller man would follow him out the door.
Phil looked down at the bleeding man before him and saw that same expression he had seen earlier that evening: pure defeat. He felt his heart sink a little, so he decided to show him some sympathy, something he knew Ollie would never do for him.
“Look, I’ll get him an ice pack and clean up his face. I’ll get him a taxi later on, I just want to know he’s alright before I let him leave,” Phil sighed, receiving a very confused look from Ollie in response.
Dave held up his hands in acceptance and said his goodbyes shortly after, leaving the two in a stony silence.
Without exchanging a single word, they both made their way into the kitchen, where Ollie promptly plonked himself down at the table and Phil searched his freezer. He presented the bleeding man with a bag of frozen chicken tenders. Ollie stared at the bag in disgusted confusion.
“Don’t you have peas?” he asked.
Phil shrugged, “I don’t eat peas.”
“Fat-ass,” Ollie responded bitterly but put the bag to his head regardless. Phil couldn’t help but snort at the comment, because he was so quick with his insults sometimes it could be funny.
He sat opposite Ollie and clutched at his chest when the movement caused a dull pain. It made Ollie look up at him, eyes big and only slightly guilty. Phil knew he would never apologise, but sometimes his face gave away all he wanted to say.
“I’m fine,” he assured, without being asked.
They sat for a good ten minutes without saying anything, the quietest Ollie had probably ever been. He was staring intensely at the patterning on the tablecloth with an unreadable expression.
Eventually, the tense atmosphere became too much and Phil swung away to find an old medical kit he had in the cupboard. Ollie didn’t look up from the table cloth.
Phil retrieved it, then loomed over Ollie until they met each other’s gaze. He wordlessly took the frozen bag from the smaller man’s hands and removed his shattered glasses with a bit of shame. His eyes were so much smaller without them and the lack of them made Ollie look slightly vulnerable. If Phil didn’t know his character, he might’ve felt sorry for him.
He ripped open an alcohol wipe and carefully cleaned up the now-dry blood from his face. Despite all of Ollie’s hissing and “be gentle”s, he knew he was being cautious as he could be. He tenderly wiped Ollie’s brow, trying to get into the role of mother hen.
They were very close. Phil could hear the whistle of Ollie’s nose whenever he exhaled and could feel the breath on his neck. He could see the wrinkle in his brow whenever his touch hurt. All without barely speaking, there was a mutual sense that they forgave each other.
It would’ve been a nice (if not a bit awkward) moment, if Ollie had not ruined it by asking:
“Does it hurt to get bummed?”
He’d asked in such a serious, quizzical way that Phil couldn’t help but draw back and exclaim: “What the fuck?”
“Well, if that’s what you need to do to get parts these days maybe I should prepare myself,” he explained, which didn’t ease Phil’s mind.
“Ollie, you don’t need to worry about that-"
"No, but does it, though? Because now I’m curious.”
Phil pinched the bridge of his nose in slight frustration but mostly embarrassment. He let out an exasperated groan.
“Yes. Kind of. Not when you get used to it but the first time, yeah it does,” he answered while opening another alcohol wipe.
Ollie grimaced.
“Really?” he asked, squeezing his thighs together in discomfort.
“A bit, yeah. But I’m sure when you find a partner who understands your pleasure you’ll-"
"Alright don’t get ahead of yourself this is a hypothetical situation,” Ollie interrupted sharply. “I’m not looking for a gay lover I just want to get a part on tele.”
Phil chuckled lightly, choosing to ignore the insulting insinuation that he’d only gotten the role by shagging his way to the top.
“Maybe you could be the top?” he suggested, trying to banish the mental image that came with saying that. Ollie have him an incredulous look.
“Give over, Phil. Little guy like me? I don’t even make a convincing top when I shag women,” he muttered and, despite himself, Phil laughed again.
He finished cleaning the wound and pressed a clean bit of gauze to it. It wasn’t bleeding as bad now but it would look nasty for a few days.
“I think you might need stitches, Ollie,” he said, watching a few specks of blood seep through the gauze.
“Why do you do it if it hurts then? What can you possibly get out of it?” He switched the conversation drastically again.
“Jesus Christ!” Phil flapped, going back to the fridge to get them both another drink. He opened Ollie’s for him and set it down in front of him.
“Because it doesn’t hurt all the time! Most of the time it’s fucking fantastic. It just depends on the guy, and how big he is, and how much lube you use. Okay?” he wanted to be done with this conversation.
Ollie looked as though he was taking mental notes. He looked up in concentration, as though he was trying to visualise something, Phil didn’t want to imagine what that might be.
“If I was gay would you fuck me?”
The question floored Phil. His mouth hung open and he couldn’t help the look of disgust he was giving him. He gaped at Ollie for a few moments, hoping his face would be enough of an answer.
“Is that a yes or a no? I haven’t got my glasses on, have I?” He quickly looked through the glass of his spectacles and promptly thumped them back onto the table once he saw the horror on Phil’s face.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, sounding rather disappointed. A strange reaction from a staunch heterosexual.
Phil wanted to ask him why he cared. Why it mattered and most importantly why he looked disappointed? Instead he tutted in annoyance and said:
“It’s not because of your looks, you’re a good looking bloke, Ollie,” he perked up upon hearing that, “but, you’re an absolute bellend.”
Ollie sunk down in his seat again.
“You are so annoying. You never admit when you’re wrong, you’re always provoking people, you’re violent and angry, and above all else your dress like a toddler!” Phil wasn’t shouting but his voice was definitely raised.
Ollie fiddled with the tab on his can of beer, not looking up.
“But apart from that?”
Phil breathed out slowly, considering the question.
“If I’d never met you before, and you didn’t say anything to ruin it, and you were wearing your rehearsal blacks? Yeah, I’d probably shag you,” he relented, taking a quick swig to wash the words out of his mouth.
The sides of Ollie’s mouth quirked up into a quick smile, he looked quite pleased with himself. The expression suddenly dropped and he looked sullen once again.
“Was I… always like that?” he asked quietly.
“No, you look better with age, especially now your acne’s cleared up,” Phil started, nonchalantly.
“Not that bit!” Ollie barked. “The… other bit. Have I always been a horrible person or did Linda change me? Was I like this before?” he asked shamefully. Phil felt his throat tighten.
“Oh…” a little embarrassed from the initial misunderstanding. He pressed on, “I think… you were.”
The bluntness and truth of the statement caused a whole demeanour change in Ollie. His eyebrows quirked up into the saddest expression Phil had seen on the man, and his whole body slumped against the back of the chair.
“You’ve always had this weird superiority complex and it was a nightmare during school. It’s been made worse due to your… circumstances, but I can’t remember a time where I didn’t kind of hate you. You were always a bit antagonistic and rude but… I don’t think it’s too late for you to change, Ollie.”
Ollie blinked slowly, his sorry gaze returning to the tablecloth. He stroked is softly with his fingers, needing something to do with his hands.
Seeing Ollie like this was odd, Phil’s brain couldn’t fully comprehend what it was witnessing. Ollie Plimsolls was either one extreme or the other. He was either bouncing off the walls with childish enthusiasm singing at an annoyingly high pitch, or he was screaming a long string of abuse and trying to cause as much bodily harm to himself or others as he possibly could. There was no in-between.
So seeing him so quietly lost in thought, so pathetic and small looking, it was a depressing sight.
Ollie wet his lips and looked up at Phil.
“Does it feel different to kiss a man? To a woman, I mean.”
Phil didn’t question it. He didn’t even bat an eyelid at the inquiry, because he knew exactly what was coming next.
“Yes,” was all he answered.
Ollie went quiet and swallowed a glug of beer to work up courage before peering back at him.
“If I want to get acting roles… I might have to… you know…” he trailed off, either not being able to think of a good enough lie, or not bothering to.
It didn’t matter, however, because Phil was already rounding the table. His intent was clear and if some part of Ollie felt like it would be healed by a snog, Phil wouldn’t mind providing. He got the sense that this was something Ollie needed, no matter how bizarre.
He took Ollie’s face into his hands and examined the shaky man beneath him. A bit of dried blood was left caked in his eyebrow, his forehead was bruised and his eyes still looked wrong not being behind spectacles. His boyish features looked nervous, blue eyes not knowing where to look, instead darting around every inch Phil’s face.
Ollie let out a shuddery breath when their lips connected. Phil was right, it was different to kissing a woman. As he nervously kissed back, he started mentally noting down the differences.
He tasted like lager. Linda had never drank beer in her life. He smelt cologne and he could feel the stubble on Phil’s upper lip subtly brush against him and the rough hands of a man caressed his face. He was more forceful than Linda, too, and Ollie couldn’t help the desperate little sound that came from his throat when Phil pulled him closer and slipped him tongue. He’d never been one for drunken make-outs or one nights stands, so the desperate surge he felt within him was quite a welcome surprise. The hot longing he felt deep in his core as they brushed their tongues together.
It ended suddenly.
“Ow!” Ollie exclaimed when his head injury was accidentally brushed. He cradled it gently and hissed in pain.
“I didn’t enjoy that. Not for me. I’ll stick to minge,” he assured, wincing at the stinging pain in his head.
“Go to the hospital, Ollie. You’ll need stitches,” Phil said, sounding far away. When Ollie put his glasses back on he saw that he was packing away the med kit and putting his chicken back in the freezer.
“I can’t! Not the nearest one anyway,” he whined, “Don’t you remember what that nurse put in my drip? My stomach’s never recovered.”
Phil tried not to gag at the memory. He busied himself with collecting the cans that were strewn across his apartment.
“And Specsavers doesn’t insure lens replacement! I’ll have to pay through the nose to repair these!” Ollie shouted after him, waving his shattered glasses around.
In a weird way it was a relief to hear Ollie whinge and complain again. It was as if he’d gotten his old self back.
He completely tuned Ollie out at that point, instead focusing on cleaning his flat. After working with Legs Akimbo for as long as he had, you learn to completely ignore the sound of complaining.
While he was picking up scattered bits of rubbish, Ollie had emerged from the kitchen, pushed past him and stood by the front door, as though he was waiting to be shown the way out. Instead of demanding to be let out, he stood quietly, hands playing with a loose seam on his jumper and altogether looking rather shy.
“I’ll go to A&E,” he said in a hushed voice. When Phil gave him no response he pushed on.
“You, um…” he started, seeming as though he was fighting to get the words out, continuing to nervously fiddle with the hem of his jumper. Phil finally cast his attention to him, but Ollie seemingly refused to make eye contact, choosing to look literally anywhere else.
“You were good. On The Bill, I mean. Your acting was quite good. So, yeah…” he finished.
Phil went to respond, but before he could even take a breath, Ollie was swinging open the door, slamming it shut and stomping down the hallway.
Ollie Plimsolls was a terrible person, and an even worse friend. Phil knew that in the future, Ollie would do something that was so utterly and unforgivably fucked up that they would never speak again. It was only a matter of time.
He was going to get better acting jobs and leave Legs Akimbo for good, cutting ties with the lot of them. The pain blooming in his chest as he sat down proved his point; Ollie Plimsolls was a ticking time bomb that he would hopefully never see again after he quits their stupid theatre company.
And despite all that, Phil Proctor smiled warmly thinking of his friend.