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Taron had loaned him a sleeping bag and woollen socks and brought a tent for the both of them and seemed to have the whole affair well in hand, all things considered. It gave Richard enough confidence to follow him as they set out, heading east. From the mountain to the sea, the way that water flowed. Following the river.

Intake is relatively rote and polite, like it hasn’t all been worked out in advance, like you’re just another sorry so-and-so who can’t get their act together.

Which you suppose you are, actually. This humility gig does not come easy.

The facility is very clean and chilly, time dragging and skipping over the linoleum in a manner that instantly disorients you. You’re never alone, beset at every turn by swooping swinging doors and stalwart orderlies and other strung out, grim-faced frauds.

He’s been out of sorts all day, but he feels his heartbeat slow just talking to someone. Talking to Richard. “We just never really. We never—”

Richard says it. “I miss you.” Sleepy and warm.

Taron goes to say back, I miss you too, and the enormity of it sticks in his throat, a choking lump. He’s speechless and near tears before he reels it back in quickly, gets it the fuck together, muscles it down. “Yeah, me too.”

Richard hears a familiar voice come from behind him: “Can you get three of the Kölsch? They want—” Taron asks, and stops short. “Sorry.” Richard turns to Taron, as the guy flies back to his friend group with a promise to return. “Thought you might want an extra pair of hands.”

“Yeah, sure.” Edges around to make room for Taron to cram beside him, get an arm on the bar.

“He’s fit,” Taron comments once the guy is out of earshot, slipping his sunglasses in the neck of his tee.

“Stop it,” Richard replies, automatically.

“It’s all down to you, superstar.” It's no problem for Richard to boost him up like this, the careful balance of the work done and dusted, now just a matter of managing their morale through events and press and the whole circus.

“No, come on. You’re it.” Taron clutches over Richard’s hand on his arm, his eyes beseeching. “I needed you. Need you,” he says weakly. “You’re the best— the best person.”

Fiercely pulls him in for a hug, which Richard easily returns.

Squashed against him, Taron mumbles, “And gorgeous to boot.”

“Charmer,” Richard teases, charmed regardless.

“S’true,” Taron argues.

“It’s a weak line.”

Elton, as is his wont, throws a party to take his mind off things. One just like any other, no real reason, just an excuse to gather the most fascinating and fabulous people he knows and get absolutely fucked up in the same convenient location. He decides, after agonizing, to invite Bernie. It’s been long enough. Considers getting a friend of a friend to pass along word, but finally works up the courage to call him directly.

The receiver presses hard to his ear before the click of Bernie’s answering machine relieves him, heart thudding at the sound of his breezy pre-recorded voice. Elton leaves a too-short, too-casual message. Party round mine, Saturday. If you’re in town. Nine-ish, but whenever. You know.

Urges himself to hang up.

Hope— he pauses. Hope to see you.

Elton lingers aboveboard in the mid-morning sun. In the airliner, all he gets is the cabin and the insufferable people stuck in it; sometimes a small glittering tableau from the window if he can be arsed to lift the shade. Here he can see everything, lord of all he surveys, which he fancies. The sun on his face, the breeze cooling his cheeks; he closes his eyes, breathes it in.

Captivated, he peers over the side to witness the churning edge of foam against the hull. That’s how it feels, at the best of it: large, powerful, singular. Splitting the sea, unmoored and untouchable. The rail is sticky with salt spray, when he peels his hand from it.

Elton finally retreats to his cabin and calls down for tea. In the meanwhile he looks out through his porthole, dreamily imagines the free, roguish life of a pirate. Swashbuckling and billowing shirts and the lot.

He hears the door open behind him and a familiar footfall, the click of a lock. A hand slides onto his shoulder.

The door bangs shut as they stumble inside kissing, Taron clinging to Richard, pawing at his jacket, “Off, off—”

Richard complies, tosses his jacket behind him, leaving just his thin black t-shirt. Richard’s got a million of them but this one is tighter, or is it that Richard—

Richard squints at his back. “Now?” He lingers in the doorway, flat footed, fingertips pressing against the wall. He was hoping to ride his buzz straight into the pillow. Wasn’t prepared to have to engage with people any more; as it is, he feels too loose. Not himself.

“Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.” Taron throws the charger on his desk and pulls out his own phone, intent on it as he falls down onto the foot of Richard’s bed. He lays there, half hanging off the edge. They have a habit of invading each other’s space, so this is. Typical. Richard watches his back twist, the curve of his waist up to his wide shoulders, as he settles. Taron plucks at the duvet.

“Ugh, so comfortable.”

“Great. Happy you are.” Richard’s not quite able to mask his tone. Taron picks his head up to look at him. He hopes his face is doing something reasonable, doesn’t want to be rude.

There is a bit of a sussing out period, like anything, though. Purely professional. A question of, what are you bringing to the table?

Taron sings, and Richard who has never been too fucked about music honestly feels captured in a way he didn’t know was possible, thought was only meant for other people.

Taron rubs a hand over his chest, attempting to physically alleviate the sore feeling there. How long has it been like this? He just... needs a nap, or a quick smoke, or both, some sort of big flat reset button he could press that would satisfy and smooth down everything in him. His phone buzzes— he thinks for a moment it’s a bizarre muscle cramp under his hip but it’s his phone he lay on top of, idiot, and fishes it out from underneath him.

The thing is—

Richard’s so sweet, so attentive and keen to support him, and he doesn’t even quite know that it’s that at the time—

Darren, late on Friday, seizes upon the idea of going into town on their day off. He pitches Taron to come with him, growing in excitement.

“We already have a translator,” Darren announces faux-grandly, spreading his arms. “C’mon man, we’ll go exploring in the city. Enjoy the sunshine, drink too much wine. Let’s do it! An adventure,” he declares, pounding the table once with his fist.

Taron was in all honesty planning to sleep in absurdly late and, if he felt particularly ambitious, waste the rest of the day wandering around the hills, earphones plugged in, catching up on new album releases. He does like Darren, having built a casual rapport during snippets of time caught here and there over the past few months when they ended up in the same Hollywood places. Didn’t blink twice at the opportunity to work with him, much less in rural Italy, much less during a slack and beautiful summer. Figures he should take advantage of the people he’s with, the places he’s in, while he’s there. Has learned how quickly and suddenly things can end, against his will. How circumstances are only just that.