Date: Mon, 20 Oct 2003 16:09:17 -0700 (PDT)
From: reid <fear1980@yahoo.com>
Subject: Heat (gay - celebrity)

DISCLAIMER: This story is not meant to imply anything about the sexualities
of the people involved. This story makes no comment or assumption about the
views on homosexuality held by Warner Brothers, Greg Berlanti, Mickey
Liddell, or anyone else involved with "Everwood." This is merely a fantasy.

H E A T
by reid

Chapter One -

        "Then when you're done, call the set department and have them send up
a new set of gels for the remote camera."
	"Bite me."
	"What?"
	"I said `yes, ma'am, was there anything else you wanted?'"
	Leigh squinted, "I'll bet."
	I smiled my best sincere smile. Not my sincere, trying to undo damage smile.
I knew that wouldn't be necessary. At least not with Leigh. She understood
the hip necessity for sarcasm in show buisness. If you didn't have a good
handle on the fine art of lip and sassing back, you wouldn't last long.
	"Just... finish up at catering and then call them, okay?"
	I nodded, and my back was turned pretty much before she had finished what
she was saying. As I walked towards the craft service van, its griddle
smelling of grease and oppression, sweat trickled down the back of my neck.
Say one thing about Utah, the summers were hotter than Satan's jock strap.
	From behind, there came the dull sound of lighting rigs being hauled up onto
a rock outcropping. A second later, the familiar sound of an overweight,
forty year old grip swearing in the heat. Godbless remote film shoots, that
was for sure.
	The craft service van had been parked at the corner of a country road, well
set off from the main highway outside of Salt Lake City. According to our
brilliant director, brilliant being relative, this shot was going to be key
in expressing the magic of young love. Hell, what did I care? I wasn't in
L.A. and I wasn't languishing in the English program at USC. We could have
gotten sent to Bad Ronald's basment and I'd have been jolly.
	Wiping my forehead with my wrist, I stepped up to the counter of the van.
Inside, I could feel the heat coming off the stove. Combined with the heat
from the sun, the inside of the van must have felt like a furnace.
	The hired cook came to the counter. Alex was his name His face was drenched
with sweat and his white t-shirt clung to his chest. Alex and I had single
handedly gotten the sattelite dish in the hotel working. We shared a passion
for the Oakland Athletics, to say the least. I felt for the guy. There was
nothing worse than working food service in heat like this.
	"I need the final receipts for the food bill." I said, noticing the steel of
the counter feeling hot under my arms.
	Alex nodded tiredly and handed over the soggy stack of carbon papers. I
looked over them briefly, exhaling a bit and feeling that good old heat
induced light headedness.
	"Thanks." I said over my shoulder, turning to walk back towards the phone
set up at our makeshift homebase. In this case, it was an RV containing the
bare bones administrative presence at the film set.
	But then, my attention was distracted. From the corner of my eye I saw...
him. He had just finished filming a romance segment ("lovelorn Ephram"
segments they had come to be known) that was set in the middle of February.
Meaning every actor had been forced to wear winter clothing in 104 degree
heat.
	His pale cheeks were flushed and his dark hair was damp with sweat, making
him look like an angel forced to retrieve a lost soul from Hades. Just the
sight of his face was enough to nearly send me into a lovelorn fit. His
beautiful lips, his bright green eyes, his porcelain skin... it nearly
brought tears to my eyes.
	Even if he didn't know it, Gregory Smith was mine. All mine.
	But right now, he looked just a little warm. Hot, in the non-sexually
attractive way. And what did hot people want more than anything? Something
cold to drink. The password is... Coke.
	"Dude, get me a Coke or something. A cold one." I said to Alex.
	He groaned, "Get it yourself. Besides, I'm Catholic. I'm not supposed to get
involved with gay stuff."
	I looked at him with a dead seriousness in my eyes, "Alex, get me the damn
Coke. It's not gay stuff if you don't directly participate in the
transmission of the drink to the target."
	He reached down into one of the coolers and pulled out a dripping can, "God
help me, St. Sebastian."
	"I'm sure he's listening," I said as I cleaned out the rim of the can as
best I could, "Wish me luck."
	Alex waved his hand tiredly as I prepared myself for the long walk to either
hope or heartache. I hadn't tried to talk to Greg yet but I'd been working
myself up to the attempt. Part of me was ready if he turned out to be a
spoiled dickhead, and another part of me was ready and hopeful that what I'd
heard about him was true. Everyone on the set who had he'd worked with gave
him a rave review.
	Hitching my breath, I stood a safe distance away from the star of the show.
When he'd sat down, under a Nikkon-provided shade in a director's chair, one
of the producers had given him a white towel soaked in cold water. This gave
me the added advantage of the stealthy, blind approach. Somewhere far off, I
became aware that my hand was shaking. Perfect timing from my nerves.
	"Thirsty?" I asked in my most `casual' tone.
	His head darted up quickly under the towel and I smiled. There was just
something about him that made my knees week. As he pulled the towel away from
his face, my stomach fluttered as I saw his face again. It was probably the
closest I'd ever seen it.
	"Yeah, I was just going to get something."
	Inwardly, I tried not to collapse at the sound of his voice. His voice.
Talking to me. My stomach was still fluttering.
	I held out the Coke to him, "No need to work anymore than you have to."
	He took it. Then he smiled. At me. Using every ounce of self control and
dignity in my system, I smiled back. It never failed to surprise me just how
exhausting it is to smile a non-gay smile. The struggle wasn't helped by the
twinkle in his eyes. He looked like an odd Jewish leprechaun sometimes.
	"Thank you." He said, his voice sounding surprised.
	"No problem. It's my job." My best suave line delivered flawlessly.
	Greg was still looking at me. The smile had left his face but he still had a
weird, half-smile look. My eyes desperately wanted to either drown in his
eyes or lock onto his pillowy lips. Frantically, I watched as a drop of water
rolled down his cheek. I wanted to lick it off of him.
	"Been working here long?"
	"I worked at the offices in L.A. for a few weeks. This is my second day
actually on set."
	"What is your job, exactly?"
	"Oh I do lots of things," My voice tried to crack on me, "Phone calls,
paperwork, blame taking. The usual production assistant dance."
	Greg nodded, "Getting drinks for the star of the show?"
	"Yeah," I said, smirking and then realizing he might be serious before
changing my tone to reverence, "Yeah."
	He smiled again and chuckled, "Must be fun."
	"Barrel of laughs," I sighed, "Do you need anything else?"
	He shook his head.
	Suddenly, I felt like bursting into tears. This was a feeling I'd known all
too well in my life: the brief moment of socializing with a crush and then
the situation dying like roadkill. A punch in the stomach was a comparable
feeling, to be sure.
	"Do you want to sit down?" Greg asked, and his voice sounded hopeful to my
pathetically longing ears.
	I hesitated, not sure if I was hearing him correctly.
	"Or do you have work to do?"
	"No!" I said, snapping out of my disbelief, "I have a few minutes."
	Greg smiled as he shoveled several layers of coats and sweatshirts off of
the chair next to him. Feeling the blessed coolness of the shade as I sat
down, my mind screamed at me to do something more. Desperately, I wanted to
be more charming or be come hither. But nope. I sat down and promptly ran out
of anything resembling conversation skills.
	"You're good on the show." I said, immediately kicking myself for bringing
up what had just subjected him to such misery.
	"It's steady work. You have no idea how uplifting it is to play the angst
ridden teenager that hates everyone."
	I nodded, "I'm sure the heat helps."
	`I'm sure the heat helps.' What kind of goddamn pickup line was that? After
realizing that those words had come out of my mouth, I was ready to tell Greg
to run as fast as he could. I was pretty sure that's what he was getting
ready to do.
	He smirked, "It's not that bad. Just pray for death and you'll do fine."
	"Yep."
	A moment of awkward silence.
	"You from L.A.?" He asked.
	"North of there. Right around Bakersfield so I guess the heat isn't a big
deal for me. When you grow up breaking back on a vineyard, heat doesn't
really do a whole lot to you."
	I trailed off when I noticed Greg looking at me. In some sick way, he looked
interested in what I was saying. Suddenly, I felt a rush of shyness come on
as I looked at him.
	"What?"
	"Nothing." He shrugged.
	Another moment of silence. Not so awkward this time.
	"You were saying?"
	"I was saying?"
	Greg smiled, "You were saying you grew up on a vineyard."
	My mouth didn't want to work.
	"And the heat didn't do a whole lot to you?"
	"Oh! Yeah. Desert heat isn't too much different from mountain heat... or
something."
	He was still looking at me. Why couldn't he just break eye contact once?
Would that be so hard? Even when I looked away briefly, I could feel those
damn green eyes drilling into the side of my head. It was like The Village of
the Damned.
	"What kind of wine?"
	I must have looked like a brain damaged chimp.
	"You lived on a vineyard, right?"
	"Yeah."
	"So you made wine."
	"Oh... yeah. It was shitty trailer park wine. Sold in a box."
	He laughed. Sweet Lord God he laughed. Who cares if he thought I was stupid?
He laughed! He probably thought I had brain damage... but he laughed. Oh Lord
did he laugh. Then I wanted to cry.
	"I'm sorry." I said suddenly.
	Greg frowned, "For what?"
	"You should be getting ready for your next scene or something. I'll stop
bothering you."
	He looked geuinely puzzled, "Why would you be bothering me?"
	I shrugged. I really didn't know what to say. I felt lost suddenly. On one
hand, this hadn't gone how I'd hoped at all. But on the other hand, it had
been so much better in many ways. One of them being this sudden desire for me
to... stay. To not leave. An alien experience to be sure.
	I relaxed back into the seat, "So yeah. Wine in a box. It's my family
legacy."
	"It could be worse. Your legacy could be poorly made industrial conveyor
belts or something like that."
	It wasn't so much that Greg said things like that. It was the way they he
said them. Just something about his voice made me feel like I was floating on
a cloud. I could listen to him talk endlessly because of his voice.
	He rubbed his forehead, almost nervously, "I imagine boxed wine would
probably make your family rich, huh?"
	I laughed. It was a snorting laugh of disbelief.
	"Hardly," I went to elaborate but just shook my head, "Yeah. Hardly."
	"Meager beginnings?"
	"You have no idea." I sighed.
	A voice sounded behind me. I recognized who it was even before they got one
word out. Defeatedly, I slumped in the chair and prepared myself for the
tounge lashing I was undoubtedly about to recieve.
	"Reid?"
	It was Leigh. Of course it was. Of course she would show up at exactly the
wrong time. Gotta love the timing of one's boss.
	"Planning on actually working today?" Leigh's tone was sharp and scolding.
	With a groan, I stood up out of the chair and turned to face her. Part of me
was pissed off, but the other part really didn't care. I'd screwed up my
chance with Greg, so what did this matter? Maybe if I got lucky, I could get
transferred to the Gilmore Girls or some other WB show.
	"It wasn't his fault." Greg said suddenly.
	Leigh looked at him, her demeanor changing to that which one used when
dealing with the star of the show. It amazed me how quickly the off-camera
staff would switch gears when presented with on-air talent.
	"I asked him to sit down. I figured it was hot enough that he could use a
break from having to run around doing busy work." Greg delivered the last
words masterfully, getting in a good jab without being a prick.
	Leigh smiled with humility, "I just meant that he still..." She paused and
switched gears, realizing that Greg had pretty much trapped her, "There was
just some technical details that needed to be taken care of."
	Greg raised an eyebrow, "Aren't you the technical coordinator?"
	"Technically."
	I couldn't help but smile at Leigh's sudden burst of meekness.
	"Shouldn't you be the one who takes care of stuff like that?"
	Leigh looked down with perfectly practiced obeisance, "Normally, I would
have but I was needed elsewhere. I asked my production assistant to take care
of it."
	"'Asked'," I snorted under my breath.
	Leigh shot me one of the greatest death glares I'd ever seen in my life. I
tried not to smirk but it was impossible. This was the same woman whom I'd
personally witnessed lay into a delivery man for failing to hand the package
to her with the proper "overhand" style. According to Leigh, it put less
strain on her fingers.
	"Well, either way, your production assistant was needed more in helping the
talent unwind from a stressful day of filming," Greg said, sounding
hilariously self-important, "So I'm sure you can take care of whatever
technical coordination needs that are currently pressing."
	Leigh smiled the fakest most plastic smile I'd seen. In Hollywood, no less.
It was quite an accomplishment.
	"I sure can, Mr. Smith."
	With the smile still plastered on her face, Leigh turned and walked away
rigidly. As soon as she was out of ear shot, we both broke up laughing. I
guess there was just something about busting a high-and-mighty Hollywood
wannabe down a few notches that inspired good cheer.
	"Nice job!" I said with genuine respect.
	"Hey," Greg said as he stood up, "When you know how to speak their language,
they lose their power."
	"You've dealt with her before?"
	"Nah. She isn't anything new."
	I paused a moment.
	"Thank you."
	He frowned, "For what?"
	"She was looking to do some damage. Like it or not, she could have really
ripped me a new one with my job and all. So thanks."
	Before Greg could respond, I heard the crew chief calling the shoot off for
the day. Apparently the temperature had gone up considerably, making any
further film work risky due to the possible equipment damage. Not because the
actual people involved might not do well in the burning heat.
	Again, I felt the stomach punch as the crew around us seemed all too eager
to pack everything up and head back into town. With the air conditioned hotel
rooms and swimming pools and the mysterious cold boxes that provided ice for
drinks. Normally, I wouldn't have blamed them.
	Right as I tried to take my last ditch effort to extend the bridge between
Greg and myself, the head of the production department announced that our van
was going back into town immediately. Just my luck.
	"Well," I sighed, trying not to sound too mopey, "See ya around, huh?"
	When I went to walk away, Greg spoke up.
	"Are you doing anything today?"
	I shook my head. Please Lord let this be really happening.
	"Since we have the rest of the day off, do you want to hang out or
something? I could teach you more of my tricks for handing the leeches... if
you want."
	There was no containing my smile this time. The only thing I could do was
try not to seem noticeably gay or infatuated with him.
	"Well, I was going to gorge myself on the mini-bar but that sounds like
fun."
	Greg smiled. It was that wonderful goofy smile that he'd flashed so many
times before but never at me. His smile made me feel warm inside. More so
than everything else about him.
	"Hey... Reid! Time to go!" God bless the crew chief.
	I turned to Greg, trying to look apologetic, "I have to go. Every minute
they have to wait for you, it's one beer you have to buy the whole crew."
	He held out his hand, "I'm Greg, by the way."
	"Reid."
	"I know."
	He said it just as our hands touched. The feeling of his hand in mine made
me weak in the knees. His grip was strong, but gentle, and his palm was cool
and damp from the Coke can. His grip was odd, yet perfectly suited, just like
the rest of him. The kinds of things that momentary physical contact will do
to a guy...
	"Well, don't want you get in too much trouble," Greg said with a sigh, "I'll
see you back at the hotel. You're at the Best Western on 12th, right?"
	I nodded, "Room 52."
	The crew chief shouted my name again. Not wanting to tempt fate any more, I
took off for the crew van right as the equipment trucks were pulling out of
the makeshift parking lot. Not feeling anything other than a warm, floaty
feeling, I climbed into one of the pre-approved minivans.
	"Look who finally decided to join us!" One of the lighting grunts, said with
fancy.
	I mumbled something in the affirmative as I buckled my seat belt, not even
noticing the molten surface of the cheap vinyl seats. Even the garlicky odure
of the man filled van didn't pierce cloud nine. Not even the sweat of a union
crew. It was one damn thick cloud nine on which I was floating.
	The van rumbled and snarled like a dying beast as the ignition finally
turned over. The wheels lurched on the hot dirt by the side of the road and
the van reluctantly began to move down the twisting road. Complete with
violent swearing fits from the driver, expressing his displeasure at having
been issued such a quote "shitty piece of shit crapmobile that couldn't run
for shit if shit himself were driving." That's what you got with the union.
	As the van moved over the hot asphalt and the road winded down out of the
mountains and onto the main highway, my sense of euphoria only got more and
more golden. My palm could still feel the sensation of Greg shaking my hand,
my ears could still hear him talking, my whole body could still feel being
near him!
	Then my brain tried to wrap itself around the notion that it wasn't over
yet. He had actually suggested that the two of us hang out. That we spend
time together. Even if he wasn't gay, this was too good of an opportunity to
pass up.
	"Hey! Faggo!"
	My sense of bliss was broken apart by the gruff barking that I knew was
directed at me. No offense taken, however. In my brief time spent with the
crew, I'd proven myself to be reliable, good humored, and very respectable. I
knew terms like "faggo", while unrefined, were meant with affection. Or at
least I hoped that's what was meant. Hell, I didn't care at that point.
	I looked at the speaker. He was a hardened guy in his forties with whom I
hadn't had the pleasure of a formal introduction. From bits and pieces of
conversations, I'd gathered his name was Dan or Don. Again with the not
caring either way.
	"Yeah?" I mumbled, my voice much less nervous than when I tried to flirt
with celebrities I desired.
	"Were you tryin' to get with that kid?"
	I yawned, "I was talking to him."
	"Yeah, I bet. They're all just stuck up bitches. Don't waste your time."
	"So I should find a guy like you, huh?"
	Laughter in the van. They were on my side.
	"Hey," I continued, "You're a guy like you. You've never thought about...
you know... making love to another man?"
	Dan/Don's face got red and he started to bluster. Those days as a
quarterback in high school seemed so long away to him at that moment, I could
tell.
	"Shut up." He mumbled, facing forward in his seat.
	"Maybe later." I said and turned my attention outside the window. We were
gradually reentering urban America as the number of mini-marts and fast food
outlets increased by the road.
	Another burst of profanity came from the front of the van as our fuel line
was, as he put it, "fucked like a sissy little prison bitch." After yet
another choice round of blue collar poetry, he shifted the van back onto the
main expressway. Euphoria or not, the B.O. in the van was seriously starting
to work on me. I hoped I had enough time to shower before Greg... did
whatever he was planning to do.
	No! No sex. No thinking about sex. No thinking about any bodily contact
other than normal friend stuff. If I started thinking about the forbidden
pleasure of male sex with Greg, I would lose it. I'd lose it before I even
had the chance to have it. It being sex. Mentally, I slapped myself in the
face. Nothing could be accomplished unless complete control was had by the
man in the driver's seat: me. Never let the tail wag the dog.
	Our driver pulled the van into the hotel parking lot, promising to give the
producers a good beating with their own severed limbs. Of course, I was
cleaning his speech up a great deal. In any event, I wouldn't have wanted to
be the producers after hearing what he said, even knowing he meant only a
small part of it.
	Like a herd of heatstruck rhinos, the crew came out of the van like a wave
of sweat and stubble. I had no choice but to go along for the ride as I was
lolled out onto the hotel tarmac. The sun hit me like a hammer as I winced,
feeling the midday heat beat down on my exposed neck and arms.
	Once I'd righted myself on the pavement, I watched as the pack of crewmen
staggered towards the hotel. More specifically the hotel bar and the garden
of peaty delights held within. I shook my head and mopped some of the sweat
from my brow, wondering how I could be anything on the planet other than one
of them.
	I hurried into the lobby of the hotel, shivering happily at the sensation of
air conditioning. Already in the bar, I could hear the crew well on their way
to an afternoon and evening of paid drinking and waitress cajoling. But I had
more important things to deal with.
	Nearly skipping, I rode the elevator up to the eighth floor where Berlanti,
our executive producer, had generously given me my own room. Complete with
coffee maker and free shower cap. After leaving the elevator, I took a pious
moment to appreciate the clean smelling hallway after my olfactory adventure
in the van.
	It took me several tries to sucessfully unlock the door of my hotel room, my
hands shaking from the excitement. My hands never shook unless I was
anticipating some sort of interaction with a guy I liked. When the guy I
liked was THE GUY that I liked, the shaking only saw fit to increase by ten.
	In a bit of Herculean grooming excellence, I managed to shower, shave, check
myself for any other smells, dress casually but nicely, and be on the bed
watching TV all in the space of six minutes and twenty six seconds. Truly a
work of art.
	As Family Feud gave way to The Weakest Link, I began to wonder what was
taking Greg so long. What if he didn't really mean it? What if he had just
set me up and was laughing with the other actors at the Raddison over my
stupidity? That's probably what he was doing. The bastard.
	But then my little voice spoke up. Unlike most people, my little voice was
optimistic and tried to keep me from despairing too much about the
hopelessness of any given situation. My little voice told me something very
simple and logical, as what usually was needed to calm me down.
	He's probably doing the same thing. Simple as that. He's a decent, well
mannered individual and any well mannered individual would shower before
engaging in social intercourse. With this mental revelation, my anxiety
ceased almost like magic.
	Then there was a knock on the door. My anxiety ramped right back up as my
palms moistened themselves to a nasty gloss. I lept from the bed like a
scalded cat and hurried to the door, stopping to make myself look as laid
back as humanly possible.
	With a cursory knod towards style, I  straightened the hem of my t-shirt
before putting my hand on the cold metal doorknob. Take a deep breath, center
yourself, no turning back at this point... God help me.
	I nearly dropped into a dead faint when I saw him. No explaining why. My
stomach did a back handspring with a double twist, my mouth fashioning into
it's most winning smile. The weird thing was, the smile was natural.
	Greg looked so cute standing in the doorway. He was wearing a light gray
t-shirt and blue swim trunks. I always forgot how differently he dressed when
he wasn't playing Ephram. He dressed happy.
	"It only took me twenty minutes. I was motivated." He said, flashing his
goofiest smile. I was putty, more or less.
	"I was in and out of the shower in six minutes." I said, beckoning him in to
the room.
	He stepped inside, "Low maintainance. I like it."
	Effortlessly, he flung himself back onto the bed. How the hell was he so
relaxed? Here I was sweating my ass off and he was acting like it was no big
deal. How dare he. The only suitable punishment would be relentless sex in
the heat of the afternoon.
	"So this is your room? I've never seen a crew room before." He arched an
eyebrow at me.
	"Oh yeah. They sprang for the room with the basic cable. Must of had money
to spare." I said, daring to recline next to him on the bed.
	He chewed on his bottom lip, "How was the ride back?"
	I smiled, "It was a van filled with sweaty, unwashed union guys. Truly a
sensory experience to savor."
	"I heard them in the bar downstairs," Greg with a chuckle, "They'll be lucky
if they don't get arrested. The local law enforcement doesn't approve of
excessive drinking."
	"They are Mormons, after all."
	"True," He yawned, "Hey, maybe we'll get lucky and they'll get arrested and
the shoot will be canceled tommorow."
	Why would he want that? Just as I was about to dismiss the comment as the
idle wishes of a slacker-at-heart, I noticed how fidgety he seemed suddenly.
Greg looked like he realized what he'd said was a little odd sounding.
	He smiled, almost apologetically, "It's hot. Who wants to work in a parka in
August, you know?"
	I nodded. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel uncomfortable,
even if he had only made an innocent entedre. But I still couldn't help
wondering if this was all... something more. Hurriedly, I put the thought out
of my mind, not wanting to get ahead of myself or set myself up for yet
another heartbreak.
	"So what amazing work did you do today?"
	"Oh, the usual. Portray a wounded, beautiful young boy driven to help the
girl he loves even though she'll never love him back."
	I looked at him momentarily, not sure if he was being serious or genuinely
poking fun at his on-screen persona. If I laughed and he was serious, he
would be offended. Artists didn't like their work to be treated like a joke,
that simple lesson I'd learned long before. If I laughed and he didn't like
it, the whole thing would explode on the launching pad.
	Greg looked back at me before breaking into laughter.
	At that moment, I knew that he and I would be cool. Just like that, the dam
that had held me back collapsed and I was able to talk to him like a real
person. Once I knew that he didn't hold such a serious view of himself,
things seemed to magically open up for me.
	We spent the rest of the afternoon watching assorted movies on the Lifetime
Movie Network and generally talking. Finally, I felt like I had found someone
in the ghastly world of entertainment that I could talk to like a human
behind. Greg wasn't arrogant, didn't have some gross sense of entitlement,
and he didn't expect things. He wanted to earn them.
	We talked about his father, who had been something less than ideal for much
of his life. We talked about my father, who had just plain been bad for all
of my life. Even though we had differing degrees of experience on that plane,
it became our biggest bond. We understood how it felt to feel rejected by the
person you're taught to believe rules the world.
	Oddly enough, Hollywood didn't come up much on his side. Any discussion
about the city of lost dreams was on my end. I told him about how I got my
job with Warner Brothers, how I'd fled a dreary college career, and the
general sense of disillusionment I was beginning to feel.
	Greg listened to all of it. He really listened. He didn't seem like he was
waiting for me to stop so it would be his turn. He knew how to listen to
another human being. Truly, it was an art that I worried had been lost
forever in Hollywood.
	We talked long after night had fallen and the temperature dropped to a
humane level. We talked over bad room service chicken. We even talked as the
police arrived to tell the drunken hoard of hired help to keep the volume
down in the bar. We laughed about that last one, to be specific.
	As we talked, I realized that my feelings were deeper than any crush or any
infatuation that I'd ever felt before.
	It was the feelings that come with getting to know somebody ontop of the
lust. As I listened to him, I couldn't help but think about being with him.
Not just sexually but emotionally and spiritually. Stopping myself, I knew
I'd start to cry.
	It was nearing 10:30 when Greg noticed that they might be missing him back
at the Radisson. Not as much as I'd be missing him from the Best Western.
	He looked at the clock, "Damn. I should probably get back."
	Hearing him say the words caused a pang in my heart. I must really be
falling for him if the thought of being apart from him caused such a
specific, painful reaction. It even made me want to cry again.
	Greg stood up off the bed, stretching his back. As he did so, the hem of his
t-shirt pulled up and I caught a blessed but way-too-brief glimpse of his
firm stomach. The sight made me week in the knees for about the hundredth
time that day.
	He exhaled heavily, "So, I'll see you tommorow."
	"I'll be around."
	He smiled, "Are you gonna miss me?"
	"I think I can handle ten hours."
	"You're gonna miss me. I can tell."
	"Don't flatter yourself!"
	Greg poked me in the side playfully, "I suggest you accept your feelings of
sorrow, Reid. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt."
	I poked him back, amused at how squirrely he reacted, "I suggest you keep
your hands to yourself!"
	He poked me in the side again, "I suggest you don't make idle threats."
	With no warning, I began to tickle him mercilessly. My fingers dug into his
waist, finding the one area that even the most unresponsive subject would
react to. Greg, however, was far from unresponsive, howling with laughter and
trying to curl into a ball on the bed.
	I continued my tickling assault, lightly but masterfully tweaking his
reflexes. As he squirmed underneath me, I forgot all about how cute he was or
the pure, unfettered physical contact we were engaging in.
	Being so close to him, I noticed how he smelled for the first time. It was a
mixture of sweat, shampoo, and that special natural scent. His smell and the
sensation of his slight body thrashing against mine brought me back to earth.
This sort of rough housing was okay for a while, but wasn't I taking it a bit
too far?
	I hesitated and withdrew my fingers. Greg noticed immediately and stopped
laughing, sweat standing out on his forehead. For a second, we didn't move as
the sound of our heavy breathing filled the room. For a split second, I felt
like he was somehow telling me to procede. To kiss him.
	"Sorry." I said, swallowing and standing up off of him.
	"It's okay," Greg panted as he stood up and mopped his forehead, "I know how
tough I can be to resist."
	I inhaled heavily, "So, yes, you will see me tommorow."
	He smiled and laughed again as we walked to the door. My stomach began to
ache again at the thought of being apart from him. I felt the lump returning
to my throat, and I swallowed frantically at it. This was not the time to
start weeping like a smitten gay guy.
	After I opened the door and he stepped into the hall, Greg paused for a
moment. The look on his face was tough to read. I couldn't tell if it was
regret or disappointment or something else entirely. Maybe I'd made him feel
uncomfortable. Or maybe I'd made him feel comfortable.
	"Hey, if you need to chill out or don't feel like working, you can come find
me on the set."
	New hope blossomed in my heart.
	"Maybe I will."
	Greg smiled awkwardly, "I mean, tommorow is going to be full of stressful
scenes and heartache. So I could use some company, you know?"
	I nodded, understanding what he meant, "I'll come find you when I get the
chance. If you'll take care of my boss, that is."
	Greg nodded, "No problem."
	We stood silently for a moment. It was beginning to seem to me like he
didn't want to leave. At that moment, I wanted so badly to ask him to stay
but I couldn't. The words just wouldn't come out.
	I felt the lump in my throat forming again.
	"So I'll see you tommorow, huh?" I said finally.
	"Yeah!" He sighed, "Have a good night."
	I smiled as best I could as the door closed. As soon as it slid into the
frame, my body nearly crumpled on the floor. Suddenly, the lump in my throat
was too big to ignore as tears began to roll down my cheeks. I didn't
actually sob, but my chest shook and my eyes burned.
	How the hell did this happen so suddenly?
	In one afternoon, I'd met my perfect match. I'd made a real, deep connection
with a famous actor who could have spent the free time with anyone he wanted.
But he wanted to spend the time with me. Never before had I ever felt like
anyone had wanted to spend time with me on their own free will. Never before
had anyone ever acted actually interested in what I was saying.
	All these new thoughts and concepts raced through my head as I sat down on
the end of the bed. For a brief second, I could still feel the warmth from
where Greg had been siting. I could still smell him in the room. I could
still feel the firmness of his stomach on my fingers. Fresh tears rolled down
my cheeks as I tried to purge his memory from the room.
	I don't know how long I sat there, it must have been at least an hour
because muted TV had begun showing the intro to David Letterman. Feeling sick
to my stomach, I stood up and switched the TV off. It wasn't like I could
have understood it. The only sound I could hear was the rushing of blood in
my ears. The room around me looked dulled and fuzzy, my eyes still wet with
tears.
	How the hell did this happen?
	I took a deep, quaking breath and ran my shaking hands through my hair. For
a brief second, I didn't know if I was having a panic attack or not. This
experience was certainly new and alien enough to cause one, I was pretty sure
of that much.
	Panic attack or not, the queasiness in my stomach was different than
anything I'd ever felt before. When there had been cute guys I'd encountered,
I'd felt the queasiness. But never this much. Never to such an emotionally
upsetting degree.
	I may not have known how it had happened but I knew what had happened. What
had happened was clearer in my mind than anything I'd ever felt before. At
least that security made me feel a little bit better. At least I knew what
had happened.
	I'd fallen in love with him.
	Of course, he probably didn't feel the same way. He probably had some
girlfriend back in L.A. and a girlfriend in Utah. Some darling little Mormon
girl who was rebelling against her parents by dating a sinful puppet of the
performing arts of Satan. Of course he wasn't gay. Why would he be?
	But then my little voice spoke up. It asked why had he spent so much time
with me if he had someone else to go to? Why would he have made sure to let
me know he wanted to see me the next day? Why did he want me to kiss him when
we were on the bed together? My little voice threw water on the beginning
depression, not letting me draw any false conclusions.
	As the tears stopped, I looked up and smiled. Maybe he was into me "like
that." Maybe he was gay. I just wished there was some way I could know for
sure. I wished there was I way that I could know if he felt the way about me
that I felt about him. All I could do was wait.

To Be Continued ...

        I can be reached on AIM as feared1980 (starting 11/1/2003) or
        o08Reid80o (up until then). A list of my other stories available on
        Nifty can be found at http://www.geocities.com/fear1980

        Thanks!