On The First Day of Filming


"You too?" James closed the door of green room and leaned back on it. Jeremy was perched on the table at the end of the room, the selection of sandwiches, sticks of vegetables with various dips, the small cream éclairs - nothing had been touched, the cling film was still covering the plates.

That was unusual in itself, but James was sure there'd been tears in his co-star's eyes when he'd walked in.

"You haven't heard from him?"

He shook his head. "Not a word since he moved. What? Six weeks ago?"

"We knew it couldn't last forever." Jeremy lifted his head and James saw the misery in his expression. "God, Jez…." His own feelings were being mirrored back at him, bright in Jeremy's eyes. He hadn't slept for more than two hours in any given night for at least a week and it looked like the same was true for the other man. "I keep remembering what you said about the Porsche and Zonda."

"No. He wouldn't. It's gone further than that. We went… further than that."

"But that's the problem, isn't it? We went, he didn't follow."

"He did." Jeremy wiped his eyes with his index finger and thumb. "On the Isle of Man he was right there with us."

There was a knock at the door and a authoritative female voice said, "Mr Clarkson? You're wanted on the main stage."

"Fuck," he mumbled, and out loud called to her, "I'll be with you in one minute."

James crossed the room in five steps and reached to squeeze Jeremy's shoulder. "He'll be here later, we'll talk to him. He's probably been busy - you know what he's like. New house, new bike, horses, that bollocks he does for Sky…."

"Six weeks, James! When I see him I'm just going to watch to touch. If that's not allowed any more…."

"I know. Believe me." He put every sleepless minute into those two words. "Go on, go and film the grand opening."

He watched Jeremy go, closing the door behind him, and turned back to investigate the food situation. He wasn't hungry, per se, just that eating was like fixing the bike, tinkering with the trains, driving around on country roads; it took his mind off not seeing Richard, not hearing from Richard since he'd moved to the west of the country earlier the previous month.

He'd done a couple of television shows, something for the BBC, something for Endemol. (Definitely not Big Brother.) Jeremy, he knew, had also been working. Life went on.

Once - and only once - he'd actually been flicking through the digital television channels and had stopped at the sound of Richard's voice; 'Brainiac: Science Abuse'. One of the worst shows in the history of television, and he'd been happy to tell Richard that over and over again when he'd first started presenting it.

But this time he'd watched it - what had remained of the episode they'd been screening. He'd even laughed in places.

But seeing Richard, looking gorgeous in his white shirt with the light blue pattern on it, one of the many James had unfastened the buttons of and eased from his narrow shoulders, had done him in. Sitting on the sofa in the early afternoon, he hadn't known whether to cry or masturbate. He'd thought about calling Richard then, but he'd lost his mobile somewhere on the Isle of Man - and all his contacts along with it.

Of course there were other ways - calling the office and asking the receptionist for his number, driving over to Jeremy's place to get it. Jeremy would definitely have had it.

But he hadn't done either of those things. Instead he'd taken the car out, driven for hours and hours, out into the country, driving too fast on roads that were too narrow, too bendy.

Having seen the state Jeremy was in, he wished now he had gone over there. But paranoia had started to set in early and he'd managed to convince himself that he was being left out of it, tuned out by both of his lovers.

It was bullshit, of course. It had to be. Early in the morning when he'd been rationally thinking about it, he remembered everything they'd said and done on the Isle of Man, the conversations in the wee hours of the morning, lying together in a tangle of arms and legs, talking about nothing and everything. But late at night rational thought left him and his memory would serve up the arguments, the bickering on set, the huge differences between them.

His hand dropped away from the plate of cream cakes, appetite gone.

"So the house is great, thanks for asking, and I'm just peachy."

Head snapping around, James' body followed.

"Richard…."

He was standing there, the door closing behind him, hands on his hips, expression a perfect cross of fury and bewilderment.

Lack of sleep caught up with James; anxiety and good old-fashioned frustration exploding out of him.

"You might of bloody called! I don't have your number, Richard, I don't have your address!"

There was a stunned pause then, "I did call! I left about twenty voice messages, two hundred texts…."

"On my mobile."

"Yes!"

"The one I lost when we were on the Isle of Man."

Richard stared at him as the situation began to dawn - James watched realisation wipe the confusion from his face. "I don't have your landline number. I thought you were just busy, or away. Oh, James…."

They took two steps towards one another before James reached for Richard, wrapped his arms tight around him and hugged him hard.

"I'm so sorry." He sounded sorry, sounded surprised. Didn't sound half as hurt or worried as James had been. But it was always going to be that way and if it was the only way he was going to have Richard in his life more intimately than as a co-presenter for the Beeb, he would be more than happy with that.

"It's fine," he muttered quietly. "Now, it's fine." It was. This wasn't a platonic hug. Richard's mouth on his throat wasn't a friendly touch. James suddenly felt as if he was on fire. Having Richard in his arms, holding all that energy close to him… the grin burst out over his face.

Finally he forced himself to loosen his arms, and Richard stepped back. "So… did Jeremy lose his landline on the Isle of Man too?"

~

"Jeremy for fuck sake…."

"Sorry." He shook his head and stepped down from the staging, trying to get the words ordered in his head. Five lines. Nothing brain taxing, nothing awkward or difficult or even with tongue-tying rhyming. But neither his head nor his heart was in it. He kept looking at the seating - the single chair seat for him and the double for James and Richard - and thinking about seeing his lovers sitting opposite him. It was difficult enough contemplating it, knowing how Richard's mouth felt on him, knowing the effect of James' hands on him.

But the idea that it could be over, the idea of never tasting Richard again, never holding him, was breaking his heart. And that was the most terrifying shock. Because he hadn't ever imagined he was that deeply involved. He'd never meant to fall so deep in love.

He'd done the one thing he'd told James not to do.

"Take six!"

Taking a deep breath, Jeremy bounded up on stage, turned and spread his arms with an enthusiastic, "We're back!"

The next words lodged in his throat when he saw Richard standing at the back of the wide-open space, leaning against the dirty white wall, ankles crossed, arms crossed. And as he watched, James stepped into view. Smiling. Grinning. Happy.

Richard still looked pissed, but not hurt, not depressed. Not like he was about to throw away what was, in Jeremy's not-so-humble opinion, one of the best things that had ever happened to the three of them.

"Keep rolling," he said, jumped down off the stage, and in the next second leapt back up announcing, "We're back! And we have the loudest, fastest, craziest series for you all so far!"

~

Grabbing Richard around the waist, Jeremy lifted him off his feet, lifting him so he could put his arms around Jeremy's neck, holding him so tight he could feel the younger man's heartbeat against his own chest.

"I left messages on your answer machine," he heard spoken into his ear. "I thought you'd gone abroad, or back to the island for a couple of weeks. I'm sorry."

Jeremy closed his eyes. "Don't be. Just tell me where we're staying tonight." He put Richard down again, smiling into the big brown eyes.

"James' place, straight from here."

"Wonderful." He looked across at James, leaning against the table nibbling cream cakes, eyes sparkling. "I suppose we'd better record the show."

~

Richard threw his arms in the air and Jeremy could have sworn he stamped his foot.

"No way! There is no way that dumbed-down version is anywhere near as good as the classic. No way! You're insane!"

James took a step forward, actually looming over Richard. "You don't know what you're talking about, little man."

For a second or two, Jeremy couldn't work out if Richard's petulant response was an act or not. "I don't know what I'm talking about?! Me!"

"You're the surfer dude of car magazine presenters!"

"And you don't like anything that doesn't have a heritage and doesn't have to be serviced by some old family firm!"

"Cut!"

James backed off immediately, and Richard cracked up laughing. "'Surfer Dude'?"

"What? Suits you." But his smile was one of almost undisguised affection.

~

"Right!"

Jeremy was stunned for a moment when Richard grabbed the cardboard photograph of the BMW out of his hand and ran into the audience.

Recovering quickly, he gave chase through the amazed audience, collared him in a clearing of legs and feet, and took him down. One leg wrapped over his as they hit the floor asses first, Richard literally eating the photograph, Jeremy still trying to wrestle if off him.

He was hard the moment his body felt the firm weight of Richard's against it.

Having won the photo back Jeremy stood carefully, thinking quickly about Tony Blair and the Toyota Yaris, relieved when he managed to override his body's natural reaction to the feel and scent of Richard. He approached James, showed him the card and said, "He ate it!"

Whatever James' verbal response was, the look in his eyes was utterly filthy.

The day couldn't end soon enough.

~

They were barely through the back door of James' home into his kitchen when Jeremy lifted Richard up by the waist, dumped him on the table, and kissed him - hard, deep, and for a very long time.

When he finally breathlessly stepped back, Richard turned to where James had been standing patiently, and kissed him with the same passion, the same aching need.

And then he stated, "We need to talk."

James' stomach plummeted, but Jeremy, apparently, didn't care for the suggestion one little bit. "Later." He scooped Richard off the table. "Where's the bedroom?"

~

Much, much later, back in the kitchen, James attempted to concentrate on cooking up something Italian that smelt of Chianti and decided he was doing well just to divide his attention equally between the food and Richard, who was sitting up on the work surface, only vaguely dressed in open jeans, almost wearing his shirt. He was holding a beer in one hand and ceaselessly caressing the back of Jeremy's neck with the other.

"You said something about us needing to talk?" James reminded him. He had to. Despite the desire thrumming through them still after three hours in his huge bed, he was worried about what Richard wanted to talk about.

"Yeah, although I agree with Jeremy that our need to shag was more important." The humour eased James' anxiety a tad. "Okay. It's just this; you didn't hear from me for almost six weeks and instead of calling me, instead of ringing and demanding I explain myself, you both decided I don't want anything to do with either of you any longer." James glanced at Jeremy and recognised the sheepish guilt on his face. "This - the two of you - mean more to me than I could ever put into words. I'm not about to wake up one morning and decide it's over. I don't make a habit of sleeping with my male co-stars, just in case that's what you thought."

Jeremy glanced up at him. "Not even John Tickle?" Meanwhile James was staring into the red wine bolognaise sauce, determined not to let show how touched he was by Richard's words.

Richard pulled a face. "I love you - both of you. Don't ever think I don't. Are we clear?"

James nodded, trying to ignore the feeling of his heart being pulled out of his chest and squeezed. He watched Jeremy wrap his arm around Richard's waist and hug him wordlessly, apparently as incapable of making words as James was.

Richard's arm settled over Jeremy's shoulder.

"End of talk?"

"End of talk."