Chapter Text
Brennan is getting antsy.
Almost two hours into the Game Changer season nine wrap party, and he still hasn’t gotten a chance to talk to Sam. They keep glancing at one another, exchanging meaningful looks, then instantly getting caught up with another (very lovely, delightful) cast or crew member.
It’s great. It’s great! This is everyone’s night, absolutely, but…
But nothing. It’s everyone’s night. It’s everyone’s night, and Brennan also would very much like to steal Sam away for a sec because he’s the only guy who can get him into an outfit this cunty and he’s been wearing it for like eight hours or something so he’d really like to show his appreciation and immediately go cover up.
• • •
It feels like his whole body sighs of relief when Sam finally, finally stands before him.
“Dude. That was fuckin’ crazy. You’re fucking crazy.” He’s well aware that hes teeming with unalloyed admiration, but he can’t find it within himself to hold anything back.
Sam’s smile is impish. “So you were a fan?”
“Man, you know how obsessed I am with Drag Race.”
“Why do you think you were chosen for the episode? Well, that and your Dungeons and Drag Queens experience.”
“Oh my god. It’s so stupid that this is our job.” He can’t stop smiling.
“Super stupid.” Sam mirrors his grin, and Brennan gets a good look at his outfit for the first time.
The fit of the infamous suit remains the same, but it’s been dressed up with glittering rhinestones lining each pinstripe. He’s still wearing those horrible white sneakers, and it makes Brennan oddly emotional because everything is softened with Sam. Everything is a little fun, a little quirky; even at his most professional and powerful, he pulls himself back down to Earth. It is not lost on Brennan the serious work he puts in to not be seen as Sam Reich, CEO, and remain Sam Reich, approachable goof.
“The look,” he says. “I mean, subtle compared to what y’all did to us, but amazing nonetheless.”
“You think?” Sam mocks dusting off his blazer. “I didn’t want to steal the show, but any opportunity to dress up, right?”
“Can’t relate, won’t lie; but loving that for you, man.”
“Speaking of, did you like your outfit? I told them to go easy on you.”
“Easy on me!” Brennan laughs. “I am literally cold right now. I’m never cold.”
That sets Sam off, too. “You’re cold!?”
Brennan looks down at the crop-top-fishnet-skort scenario he’s got going on. “Yes. This outfit is so slutty I legitimately need a jacket in, like, mid-60s weather,” he deadpans, earning a classic Sam cackle. “I might actually go get one from my car.”
“If you’re actually going, I’ll follow you, if that’s alright. I would love a break from the noise.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
Once he grabs his bag from the green room, it’s a short walk to the lot. Brennan puts a hand against the driver’s side door handle to unlock the car and hits the button on the trunk manually. He steps back to let it open and is tickled by the mirror image of him and Sam’s trepidation—like they’re adventurers waiting for a treasure chest to reveal its ancient riches, if only its hydraulic lid would hurry up already.
Of course, it’s just some reusable bags and his quarterzip inside. He swipes it and throws it on, feeling far more like himself. If it wasn’t for present company, he’d probably bring a sleeve up to smell, to recalibrate himself to the calming familiarity of coffee and laundry detergent. He closes his eyes for a moment at the thought of it, grounding himself amongst the distant chatter of the party and the garish green fluorescent floodlights illuminating the parking lot.
He opens his eyes, and there’s Sam.
It’s funny: for such a showy, flamboyant episode, he has the most subtly gorgeous makeup on. It’s understated, but his eyebrows and beard were shaped and colored. He’s wearing some sort of clear lip gloss—which a dope like Brennan probably wouldn’t recognize if he hadn’t seen Sam take it from his inner suit pocket mid-shoot to reapply it—and is sporting contacts instead of his usual tortoiseshell frames. There are glittery highlights on the inner corners of his eyes, and they accent the pièce de résistance of the look: chromatic eyeshadow in the colors of the Game Changer podiums.
The words pour from his mouth. “You look beautiful.”
“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “What a charmer.”
“I’m serious. You’re…”
Brennan reaches out to thumb along the rhinestones on his lapel, absolutely arrested by the effusive buzz unique to annual season finale wraps.
When he glances up, he realizes they are so, so close.
Again, he thinks of the hotel room. The balcony. His hand moves up to Sam’s beard and he’s imagined this feeling more than he’d ever admit.
I don’t think I’m what I thought I was.
“May I?” His inquiry is so hushed it barely stands above the white noise of the city.
Sam takes an unsteady breath and moves to meet him.
The kiss is so, so slow. Sam shakily puts a hand on his chest— or more accurately, hovers it there, as if Brennan’s suddenly gonna change his mind and burn him like a stovetop.
His lips are sticky. They taste like artificial strawberries.
It feels so novel. He wants to bump their teeth against one another; rub their noses together. He wants their skin to melt, molten metal, and meld into something stronger.
When Sam pulls away, Brennan chases only for an instinctual half-second. He’s trembling, incandescent; alight with the broken inertia of however many ridiculous years part of him has ticked away, tucked in a corner, wondering and wondering.
And Sam looks…
Sam looks aggrieved. “Fuck,” he murmurs.
Brennan’s stomach lurches with the whiplash plummet in tone.
Sam steps back, tugging at his beard, his blazer sleeves. “Um,” he says. “I’m sorry. This was… This is a crazy night.” He’s shifting on his feet.
“No need to apologize,” Brennan assuages, confused. “Not our first wrap party.”
“Look, it’s.. it’s late.”
He nods. “Used to late nights.”
“We’re drunk.”
“Sam,” Brennan says, and doesn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. They’re both woefully sober; they’ve known each other a decade; this is bordering on absurdist.
Sam looks away. Clearly he’s trying to give Brennan an off-ramp, and clearly Brennan’s choosing not to take it.
“I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t want this,” he says, in way of explanation. His voice is so, so small.
“Then I guess that’s, uh. My job.” Sam smiles, a grim thing.
Brennan just stands there, because his mind’s gone blank, and there’s not much else to do.
“Look,” Sam says, and nothing follows.
Coffee. Laundry detergent. Strawberries.
“Can we please talk about it?” He can’t meet Sam’s eyes because they’re trained at the floor.
“Sure. Yes.” They’re both still for a moment. “In the car? It’s.. somewhat private.”
Insane, surreal, yet a practical choice. “Okay.”
Brennan feels untethered yet again as he climbs into the driver’s seat.