He’s not bloody kidding when he says Christian doesn’t call. Doesn’t keep in touch.
Todd knew something, Ewan’s pretty sure of that. What Todd thought he knew, though, is entirely another matter. Because Ewan’s a pretty good actor and he’s excellent at diversions; a bit of flirting with the make-up artists and the girls down the pub. Not faked, just nudged in the right direction.
If Christian happened to notice, well and good.
There’s nothing else Ewan wanted him to notice, after all.
Better that he didn’t, at least. Ewan’s a scrapper, but Christian still looks like he can make a good rugby tackle if he needs to. Gets this look sometimes, like he doesn’t care if he breaks every bone in his body doing what he thinks he needs to do.
Ewan doesn’t do method but Christian’s a little too full of it.
Made it uncomfortable when they met up between takes and Christian stared up at him with stars in his bloody eyes. Like he thought Ewan really was Curt Wild and he was some seventeen year old fan, getting hot to the thought of Ewan... well.
Ewan’s not a fucking Bowie fan but he gets the attraction. Those sharp cheekbones and those legs. Best legs he’s ever seen. And some of the things Bowie wore back in the Seventies should have been illegal. Especially the way he wore them, knickers almost up his bloody arse.
Ewan doesn’t blush too much anymore but he thinks he could start if he does any more research on Bowie and Iggy Pop and Lou Reed.
Todd told him all sorts of stories and it was fun at the time to think of playing this part. He believed in the story. And Jon’s good fun even if he is a prissy little tart who pretends to complain about how Ewan’s stubble irritates his delicate skin.
The first time he pulled that, fluttering his eyelashes and puckering his lips, Ewan wasn’t sure whether to laugh or back away. Slowly. Until Jon grinned at him, wicked and predatory, and everything was alright then.
It’s different with bloody Christian.
The irony isn’t lost on Ewan that if there’s anyone who it’s going to be awkward for, it’s the dick he had to simulate a fuck up the arse with on a rooftop.
He’d been a little nervous at the time. Todd and Jon had taken the piss out of him. Christian... well, nothing much to say about Christian. A shrug, a level stare, a ‘you’re not fucking chickening out now, right’, and Ewan’s no chicken. A dare’s like a red flag. Like the movie says, a rock guitar just sends him mad – no brakes on his brain.
So they got through it. Christian joking around, the same old tedious joke about not putting out until Ewan bought him dinner. He’s not that easy, he said, all awkward, gutless coquetry.
Ewan wasn’t having a good day and he wasn’t fucking happy about gay shit on a rooftop in front of a whole crew. Could have done without the crappy jokes, so he stole a bar of chocolate from someone and tossed it at Christian’s head.
“Chicks like chocolate, right?” he said, “Bend the fuck over and let’s get it over with.”
Maybe he went too far. Maybe he should have let the words filter through his brain before they came out his mouth. Like verbal diarrhoea, his mouth sometimes. And wasn’t that the most romantic thought.
And trust Todd, in the middle of all that, to play tricks on his actors and forget to yell ‘Cut’. And there he’d been, pressing up against Christian’s big naked back, hips hammering away like the energiser bunny while Christian did the girly thing and tossed his head about a bit.
Ewan was mostly bemused by the whole thing. Christian’s artistically badly dyed hair kept getting in his face, and there was the smell of heat and cement and make-up. The skin on Christian’s back was sticky with sweat and the take seemed to go on forever.
Long enough to think about it, really think, and think maybe... maybe... if he leaned in like Curt would have done, like he’d do if they were actually, you know, fuck buddies or whatever the shit it was. Better to breathe in and let his hips take over, like he’d do.
Christian wasn’t exactly happy about the joke. What was Ewan going to do, throw a tantrum? Better to laugh, to make a joke out it. Especially with Jon being a prissy little princess about his role and Christian getting sucked into the meta. Who else was there to keep things light on set?
Toni was a bloody angel for putting up with them, but Ewan didn’t get much of a chance with her. She had eyes for some guy in a suit who turned up and kept putting a possessive hand around her waist.
The filming wasn’t really as bad as all that. Ewan just wishes... well. He wishes a lot of things. Wishes things could be easier.
Chicks are easier. And he’s got no problem with that. Loves getting in behind them, sinking his cock into tight, wet heat and letting go, hands on their hips, and hearing them toss their heads about and say ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘more’.
Most days he doesn’t even pretend it’s anything else but what it is.
Except that Christian doesn’t keep in touch.
Not that Ewan expects it. He sees a shit ton of big, naked backs. Some of them not even on set. Some of them perfectly innocent, perfect for some mental images to wank off to, on those days when he’s too tired to take the easy way out and find a chick.
Marriage takes care of most of it. When he ties the knot, that’s it. No more fooling around. Eva understands him and she knows better than to ask, but Ewan makes sure she doesn’t have to. It’s not even like he doesn’t like things this way.
They’ve got four bloody daughters, the apples of their father’s eye, and hell if that doesn’t say enough on the matter.
But it’s a matter of pride – or something else – that Christian never calls. Never keeps in touch.
Ewan watches the box office buzz, the trailers and posters and celebrity gossip, eyebrow rising at the small scattering of tabloid nastiness. In-control Christian, micromanaging every facial expression after decades in the business, playacting the actor, losing control?
Ewan wants to think its irony or karma or something, but maybe he’s not entirely a dick, like the Americans say, and he does feel a little bad. It’s clearly a stressful time. He thinks about calling. Thinks about maybe offering a drink. He can go to pubs, just doesn’t drink anymore.
He thinks Christian would probably stare at him in sceptical bewilderment, not getting that it’s not some joke at his expense. It’s not Ewan setting up some elaborate prank. It’s just natural, and normal, makes perfect sense in an imperfect world.
Like getting into the head of psychotic sadistic businessmen serial killers. Like losing too much weight for a bloody movie. Like spending three movies dressed up like a giant bat.
Like fucking rockstars on rooftops.
Then again, Christian’s made sense in a totally different way. And if Ewan really wants to, he can close his eyes and pretend he remembers the feel of Christian’s dyed-stiff hair in his face, Christian moaning and shifting in front of him, back bowed like they really were going at it like rabbits, like it was all normal and natural and made perfect sense in an imperfect world.
But Christian doesn’t keep in touch, and he doesn’t come back to find Curt Wild or Ewan McGregor or any combination of the two, for which Ewan’s grateful, because fuck, he needs that shit like a hole in the head, but it stands – Todd knew something was up, and didn’t yell cut.
And that’s about all Ewan has left to remember.