Gale & Randy Do America

1.

Gale puffed on his cigarette from the privacy of the telephone booth and sighed. He had a cell phone, but with people flocking in from all around the area to catch a glimpse of their favourite "Queer as Folk" stars and shove DVD sets in their faces, hoping for autographs, this was the only place he could use it with some chance of hearing the person on the other line. Even the bathrooms were interspersed with gawking fans, fans who would jump for a chance to shake the hand of Gale Harold, even before he washed his hands after taking a leak. That was practically like touching his character's famed genitalia, anyways.

Large crowds made Gale nervous; he wasn't used to not having his own space, and now that his anonymity was no longer guaranteed with the extreme success of the show, the pressure just kept building. One day, he was a struggling actor living in a shitty apartment complex on the outskirts of Hollywood; the next he was the guest of honour at exclusive premiere parties and booked for large-scale events with as much regularity as he changed his underwear (contrary to popular belief, he *did* wear them). He was Somebody, now, and even though that made it easier to pay his bills every month, it issued in a whole new plethora of problems and challenges.

Lost in thought, Gale fairly jumped when his cell phone jangled in his pocket. Noting the name that popped up on the screen, he smiled. "Hey," he answered; somehow, their characters' introductory catch phrase had become somewhat of an in-joke between them.

"Hey," Randy replied casually. "Having fun?"

"Would it be wrong to tell the next person who gushes over how 'fucking hot' I am to kiss my ass?" Gale groaned, running a hand through his stylishly tousled hair. He glanced out the tinted windows of the phone booth and glanced away as a pair of teenage girls stared at him.

Randy laughed. "It would probably convince them once and for all that you really *are* Brian Kinney." Gale grinned, knowing full well that the other man meant it only in jest. For all his success donning the life of fictional gay Pittsburgh's lord and savior five days a week for the better part of the last four years, Gale had never been terribly conceited or promiscuous, traits that Brian prided himself on. And, he reminded himself, he wasn't gay; and even though the tabloids had all set his declaration of heterosexuality a couple of years back in stone, he didn't really think he was straight, either. He was just *Gale* -- people had speculated about who he probably preferred since he was a gawky high schooler pouring over Oscar Wilde, but few understood that sexuality was one of the many areas of his life that Gale just kind of took in stride, doing whatever felt right at the time.

Randy understood, though. Almost immediately after they'd met, Gale had bonded with Randy. Perhaps it was because of the obviously emotional connection of their characters, or maybe it was just that, personality-wise, Randy's cheerful insightfulness meshed with Gale's thoughtful cynicism. "A lot of people think he's really deep, and he likes that," Randy had told the press at one point. Gale had teased him about it afterwards - they always got a laugh at the latest set of interviews or publicity photos - but secretly he was touched. Randy just got him. It was nice; he was beginning to wonder if anybody would.

A few minutes of idle chit-chat passed between the two men and their respective phone lines, Gale lamenting and Randy sympathizing, knowing he'd be off with Scott and Peter at a similar event across the country in a couple of days. "Take care," the younger man had finally said. "Don't forget to brush your teeth, either; your breath probably smells like an ashtray."

"You'd know," Gale returned teasingly; it was probably his fault that Randy had picked up chain-smoking, but there were worse habits, like intentionally not shaving for a week. His agent loved to gripe at him for that; Gale figured that as long as he wasn't being called upon to play fresh-faced ad executives in his down-time, nobody should give a fuck whether he kept his stubble or not.

"Yeah," Randy smiled. "Later."

"Later," Gale echoed, a bit sadly. He noticed with a glance at his watch that he'd been hiding out for almost twenty minutes, now. Stubbing out his cigarette butt - the fifth one of a day that promised many, many more, Gale squared his shoulders and stepped back out of his sanctuary.

2.

Randy smiled disarmingly at the latest fan who'd stepped up to the table. "Hi, I'm Randy," he said unnecessarily, watching her grin and clutch her season three box-set to her chest as if it were gold. He made sure to meet the girl's gaze as she excitedly rambled off her own name and gushed about how much she *loved* the show and how *adorable* Justin was and *beautiful* he and Brian were together. Always the pinnacle of politeness; it did the concept of southern hospitality proud.

Randy was a New Englander at heart. Born in New Hampshire and spending most of his puberty-laden years in a suburb of Atlanta, he'd always preferred the comforts of the stage to the impersonal feel of television. Of course, Justin being his big break and his first time on TV, he didn't exactly have a flourishing array of evidence with which to generalize, but deep down, he knew he was groomed first and foremost for the theatre. There was something intimate about spending time with the same group of people for hours upon end, not in front of cameras and working around varying schedules, but completely together in closed quarters, working through the same script at the same time. Randy was grateful for having broken into the "scene", but he'd never love it the way he did the stage.

Watching the fan bounce away excitedly, Randy flexed his wrist and glanced sympathetically at Peter, seated to his right and stifling a yawn. If his two co-workers were any indication of how many long hours they'd put into making the fourth season live up to its ratings, Randy was sure he looked like shit. He'd never been adept at sleeping on airplanes, and with the way they'd been flown back and forth around the country at the oddest hours, he hadn't exactly been getting in his full six hours a night. Glancing down at his slightly rumpled blue plaid shirt, sleeves hastily rolled up, Randy almost laughed; the fans probably wouldn't have cared if he'd walked in wearing a paper bag, so long as he was there to scrawl his name on their over-priced merchandise.

"How're you doing, baby?" Peter asked quietly in-between fans. Randy knew the other man was working on a play in California in-between appearances at various functions, and Scott had his fair share of guest-spots and various related activities on the lecture circuit. Everyone was busy, even in their supposed down-time; knowing this made him feel better, in a way. Because even though he was exhausted, moody and burnt-out, at least his fellow cast members felt the same way.

"I'm okay," Randy assured Peter, nodding assent at Scott as well, who rubbed his temples. "I could use some fresh air, though, to be honest." Randy stood and pushed in his chair, motioning to the guard that he needed to be escorted safely (some of the fans could get *scary*) outside. "I'm taking my break," he told his co-stars, and then trailed behind the blue-uniformed man, ignoring the loud groans of protest that went up in the crowd at his temporary departure.

Once outside, Randy immediately lit up a cigarette and pulled out his cell phone, checking for messages. He'd felt it vibrate sometime around noon, but had been too occupied listening to somebody tell him about how her high school had used "Bang, Bang, You're Dead" as an educational tool to pick it up. Randy couldn't help but grin as he listened to the recorded voice on the other line.

"Randy, darling," Gale enthused dramatically. "I just called to say I loooove youuuu," he sang, obviously a bit tipsy at this point; Randy didn't mind - Gale veered from downright philosophical to fucking hilarious when he got wasted. "I know you're probably busy incurring carpal tunnel at the signing," he deadpanned, "but I know for a fact that if you complain loudly enough, they'll give you a break. Anyways, call me when you get a chance, bye." Smiling, Randy did just that. "Hello?" Gale's voice intoned on the other end.

"Gale, it's me," the younger man said by way of introduction; he didn't remember when they had stopped needing to identify themselves by name, but it had always secretly pleased him.

"Oh, hey." Gale still sounded a little buzzed. "Did you make your escape from fan-land yet?" he continued snarkily.

"Not hardly," Randy sighed. "But I did offer to let one of the police offers blow me in exchange for his uniform," he continued brazenly, knowing Gale's sense of humour allowed him to recognize the joke for what it was.

"How was he?" the older man snickered, slipping momentarily into his Brian Kinney persona; most people couldn't tell the difference, but for Randy, it was painfully obvious.

Still, he played along. "He was long and thick and *hard*," he murmured throatily, completely Justin as he described the imaginary police man's non-existant dick. Gale - Brian - purred appreciatively.

"So did you offer to help him with that?" the other man continued, still in ad exec-mode. Randy sighed.

"Much as I'd love to have phone sex with you, Gale, I don't think the fans will be terribly pleased if I keep them waiting much longer," he noted, wondering vaguely why the thought of not finishing what they'd started made him feel so glum. "I'll call you tonight, okay?" he continued, hoping Gale didn't feel put off.

"Okay," he agreed simply. "Take care," he intoned softly. "Later."

"Later." Randy stared at the receiver for a moment and pressed his lips together. "Phone sex," he muttered, pocketing his cell. "Shit."

3.

"Oh, God," Bobby cringed as Randy approached the stage. "What happened to your hair?"

Randy smiled and patted his head protectively. "I got bored," he offered cheerfully. It was true, too; eight months of being unable to do anything without considering the full repercussions of how it would effect the life of the fictional character he'd become a household name because of had taken its toll. Randy Harrison was not Justin Taylor, and for at least a couple of months during his break from "Queer as Folk", he wanted people to know that.

Bobby reached out and clapped the younger man on the shoulder, both falling into a casual pose as cameras flew up around them. "I can see that," he laughed. "A self-project, or did you pay somebody to make you look like you lost an arduous battle with a lawn-mower?"

"It's not *that* bad," Randy insisted. "I just went a little overboard with the scissors." It really wasn't the most horrible thing he'd ever seen; being primilary a theatre buff, the young actor remembered many a cast party where drastic measures had been taken by his fellow thespians to remove themselves physically from the personas of the characters they'd donned the skin of for months. It wasn't uncommon for people to walk out of there with purple hair, shapes cut into it, and drunk as a skunk, besides. At least his own remaining hair was still a fairly natural shade, he thought.

Bobby laughed and shifted slightly; Randy wrapped his arms around Bobby's neck, earning a delighted squeal from the photographer. "Whatever works for you," Ben's actor said, eyes crinkling in the corners.

Later that evening, Randy was enjoying the solitude of his hotel room when the phone rang. He thought for a split-second that it was Hal or Bobby, trying to encourage him one last time to join them for the Britney Spears concert across town, but perked up considerably when "Gale" popped up on his caller ID. "What's up?" he said introductarily, snapping up the phone.

"Not much," Gale breezed. "People have already posted pictures from the event on the Internet," he continued, eventually making his point. "Looks like you and Bobby got a little touchy-feely, huh?"

"Ha ha," Randy rolled his eyes; he knew Gale loved to tease him about how insane fan speculation about the cast's interpersonal relationships with one another were, but he idly wondered if maybe the other man wasn't a bit ... jealous by the unintentionally affectionate way he'd been folded in Bobby's arms for a couple of quick snapshots. "It's too bad you couldn't have come," he ventured. "How'd the movie shooting go today?"

"So-so," Gale shrugged. "It rained most of the day, so we packed it in kind of early." He paused. "I would have liked to be there. I mean, I don't really relish the opportunity to be scrutinized and harassed by fans," he continued, making Randy chuckle. "But it would have given us both something to do." The unspoken "together" hung in the air apprehensively.

"Right," Randy finally said, clearing his throat after a lengthy pause. They talked a little longer, about Gale's latest movie character and a play Randy had received a faxed copy of the script for that would be performed a couple of months down the road that he was auditioning for, neither wanting to ruin the casual atmosphere but both seeming to be holding a lot back for one reason or another.

"Well," Gale said eventually, "I should let you go. It's past your bedtime."

"That would imply that I sleep," Randy smiled. He wetted his lips before pressing on, quickly, before he lost his nerves. "And Gale? About Bobby? Don't, um, don't worry too much about it or anything, okay?" He wasn't sure what he was hinting at, but the older man seemed to accept it at that.

"I won't," Gale said warmly . "Goodnight, Randy." As if the result of this makeshift premonition, Randy was out like a light almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

4.

Randy fucking hated premieres. He would never been crass enough to say that he regretted doing the show, because without "Queer as Folk", he wouldn't have gotten half as far as he was today. But the stigma of *being* Justin Taylor, golden boy, was more than he could take, sometimes. Sometimes, he just wanted to walk down the street in complete anonymity, to hand a waitress his credit card at a restaurant and not have her return excitedly with his bill and an extra piece of paper so he could give her an autograph; to wake up and not have to worry about what statement he was going to make when he went out in public and people knew Who He Was.

And yet, being with Gale during the events always seemed to make them just a little better. On his own, people always goaded him about his elusive sex-life, about his character's chemistry with Brian, and always Gale, Gale, Gale. Where is he? Why isn't he here? Are you guys going steady? Does he get hard sometimes when you two are doing the simulated sex scenes together? If Randy was asked about the size, shape or texture of Gale's penis one more time, he was going to scream.

Gale, though, seemed perfectly polished in the spotlight. That didn't mean he liked being there, of course; Randy knew for a fact that his fawning public made the older man extraordinarily disgruntled. It was the reason he had wheedled Thea and Michele to flaunt their feminine wiles before the New York crowd so he could slip into the hotel with as few autographs milked from him as possible. To his fans, Gale was polite, but reservedly so. It was to the delight and mutual commisseration of those who were lucky enough to know him personally that he let loose his frustrations about the double-edged sword of his overnight fame.

"They're fucking piranhas out there," Gale called as he entered the suite he'd be sharing with Randy. The younger man was already there, sounds eminating from behind the closed bathroom door. Gale switched on some music and plucked a hairbrush off the dresser for a quick once-over. "I'm lucky to have made it inside in one piece."

"Tell me about it," Randy snarked, still hidden behind the bathroom door. "Somebody actually called me an asshole because I autographed the wrong part of their fucking publicity photo. Like the son-of-a-bitch who buys it for a million dollars on eBay is going to give a fuck." He stepped out into the main area of the room, took one look at Gale, and burst out laughing.

"It's off-the-rack," Gale stated proudly, admiring the hideously shiny outfit straight out of a 1980s MTV music video, complete with a pink button-down shirt and polka-dotted tie. "The sales clerk swore it was modeled after something Bob Barker once wore." He took in his partner's attire, smirking. "What'd you do, Rand? Kill a hobo and steal his clothes?"

"Something like that," Randy grinned. He patted his self-butchered hair and snickered at his dull brown ensemble. "Guess we won't have to beat off a thousand screeching fangirls with sticks looking like this," he laughed.

"Only a few hundred," Gale rationalized, making the other man laugh harder. It was a game Gale had proposed a few days before the fourth season had wrapped. "We've just spent the better part of a fucking year being picture perfect and cleanly-shaven," the darker-haired man had explained. "So as soon as we wrap, let's go fucking nuts." The costuming was their favourite part; each one picked out the most hideous, un-coordinated, out-of-style thing they could find, and declared a winner betwixt the two of them. It was the only thing Randy looked forward to at these sordid affairs, anymore.

"So this round is mine," Gale declared, strutting over to the mirror like a peacock. He glanced at the other man slyly, the epitome of Brian Kinney-dom. "I mean, brown's a safe investment if you want to get on the Worst Dressed List for all the local fag rags, but you already owned with the fugly blue pants in Miami."

"I got those at Goodwill," Randy grinned. "And okay, you win." He glanced at the clock sitting on the dresser and sighed. "Guess we'd better get to the meet-and-greet."

Gale rolled his eyes and nodded, striding over to the door after a moment and unhooking the dead bolt. "Come on, Carson Kressley," he motioned to the other man. "Let's go play celebrity for a few hours."