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“Well, aren’t you a difficult man to track down?” Vince says, pushing a full pint towards Grant when Grant slides into the opposite side of the booth.
“You’re not,” Grant retorts. “Though this is a bit earlier than your usual pub time.” It’s their usual pub, though, their usual booth, the same waitress keeping one eye on the levels of their glasses.
“Well, I’m used to you not emerging from your lair till later, Grant. But you haven’t been there at all the past few days; I’ve been ringing you. Wanted to talk to you about the Flex Mentallo thing, for one, before you desert us for the winter in La La Land.” Vince’s eyes are crinkling; he’s not annoyed, just taking the opportunity to tease. Grant leans back against the padded back of the booth, resettling his cuffs before he crosses his arms over his chest.
“I was in London,” Grant says. It’s been two days since he left them. He’s wearing the suit jacket that Frank peeled off of him right now, actually. It’s always been one of his favorite suits, but now he can imagine the feel of calloused, tattooed fingers skimming across the material with much more ease. Thinking about Frank and Gerard - specifically, them in bed - is distracting, so he takes a sip of his pint and looks back at Vince.
“Business?” Vince is asking. “Or pleasure.” They’ve known each other for a long time. Vince knows the signs of when something’s preoccupying him. More than the usual contents of his brain, that is.
“Both,” Grant says easily. “Meetings, always meetings. And I spent some time with Gerard, and Frank - you know, the other Frank - and the MCR lads.”
“Gerard, of course, I might have guessed. Is he going to put you in more music videos, then?”
“Doubtlessly. At some point. But no, it was just a … social visit.” He holds Vince’s eyes, even when Vince lifts a questioning eyebrow. Grant’s not in the habit of flying to London to socialize. Vince can barely coax him out of his office some days. What’s more, Vince and Jill Thompson had gotten drunk with him in his suite at the San Diego Marriott two years ago after his panel with Gerard and had gotten an earful of effusive praise, the kinds of things he hadn’t really known Gerard well enough to say to his face back then. Possibly the kinds of things it would never have been appropriate to say to Gerard’s face, because of Frank. It was worse once Vince got hold of video of the panel and heard what Gerard had to say about Grant. He occasionally reminds Grant that that he and Cameron still have the first and second spots in Grant’s harem.
He’s just kidding, of course, but Grant’s not sure what he’s going to say when Grant confesses the truth.
“And what sort of socializing was this? Is young Mr. Way still with Other-Frank?” Vince asks curiously, sounding for all the world like a nosy granny. “I thought they were -”
“They are,” Grant says simply. “Still. Always.”
“Grant -” Vince sounds a little pained. He won’t say more, never has. Won’t tell Grant to get over it; he’s a good friend but not that sort, and Grant appreciates the effort. He knows he’s not an easy person to befriend. He’s hard to talk to, sometimes intentionally; he’s a workaholic, he reads too much and writes even more, sleeps too little and even among friends it’s easier to wear one of his personas, even these days when they’re more ill-tailored than not.
As he sits quietly, and sips his pint, and smiles faintly, Vince’s eyes narrow and his expression changes. “You didn’t - Grant. You fucked him, didn’t you? I know that smug expression.”
Is it - well, maybe it is a little smug. “Not … exactly,” Grant prevaricates, finding this conversation more entertaining as he gets closer to the bottom of his pint, as Vince gets a bit more agitated.
“He fucked you?” Vince sounds a little more hesitant now. Grant would normally quash such a suggestion immediately, but he finds himself arrested by the thought, a traitorous little flutter taking up residence in his stomach. It’s not something he’s wanted or needed, not for a long time, but - Grant shakes his head no. Vince squints at him for another moment, drains his own pint, and then the glass hits the wooden tabletop with a soft click. “Grant, don’t even tell me - you fucked them both?”
It’s silent for a moment, and just when Grant’s sure Vince is about to dump the dregs of Grant’s beer over his head he replies, “...you said not to tell you.” He can feel the corner of his mouth quirking up, and Vince rolls his eyes and leans back against the back of the booth with a groan.
“Unbelievable,” he says. “Except this is you, so it is. Christ, you flew to London to fuck a rockstar. Two rockstars. Everything I’ve done in this past, oh, lifetime pales in comparison.”
Grant laughs - because Vince’s mock-annoyed tone is always hilarious - but he has to set the record straight. “It’s not like that,” he says quietly. “Perhaps the first time. But -”
“This isn’t the first time?” God, Grant loves Vince and his good-natured nosiness. “My god, you’ve been busy, Grant. Clearly we need to catch up more often. Serves me right for assuming you were holed up writing.”
“And so will I be, till Batman Incorporated is done. I’m just taking a bit of a holiday here and there.” He can’t blame Vince for the incredulous expression. Grant’s not exactly known for that.
“I … well. Good on them, I suppose,” Vince says. He sounds impressed. It’s more than he, or any of Grant’s editors at DC, have been able to do in the past. “Aren’t they releasing their album soon? I’ve seen adverts.”
Grant nods, jaw tight. He’s upset, maybe more than he should be, that he’s missing the release party, that DC hadn’t been able to reschedule his meetings. But he’s fighting the Batman Inc. release dates and half a dozen people’s schedules; it’s American Thanksgiving, and he knows the holiday’s important to everyone he works with. It’s important to him too, this year. “Their schedule and mine don’t align often,” he says. “I’ve been invited to Thanksgiving.”
He’s not sure what tone he’s using, what expression he’s wearing, but Vince’s face softens. “Oh. Well, you didn’t say it was like that.”
It’s like that and it isn’t, all at once. Grant thinks about Gerard’s face, their second-to-last morning in London when Grant had returned his words. Love, so simple, so transformative. He hears Frank’s voice, Good morning, Mr. Morrison, both light and warm. Frank, who’s the key to them both; the parts of him are unfurling so, so slowly. He wants, no, needs more time with them both. “It’s like that,” he says. “Or it will be.” Belief, Grant knows, is the strongest tool there is. Belief is the magic he needs.