FIC: Blind/sighted 1 of ?

[crabby-monkey.livejournal.com]

Title: Blindsighted
Pairing: Greg/Wayne
Rating: PG to start...
Summary: None of the gang has seen Greg since Green Screen went the way of the dodo...

None of the guys has seen Greg since he last toured with them in 2004. Sure, they know he’s alive, every now and then one of them will hear his voice on the radio. Wayne couldn’t understand it – they’d been friends, darn it, and he shouldn’t have just dropped off the face of the earth. It took a while, but he finally managed to track down where Greg moved – a posh apartment building downtown. Now that he was actually standing outside the door, Wayne was ticked off. He could hear someone moving around inside.

“Dude, open up! C’mon, Greg, I know you’re in there!” Wayne was alternating between banging on the door and ringing the doorbell.

(Shit, shit, shite, shite, bugger, bugger, bugger! He’s the one person that won’t take no for an answer. Better get this over with…)

~The locks were opened one by one, the * snick * sounding horribly loud in an otherwise quiet room. He stepped back and to the side – away from the swinging door.

Wayne almost fell through the door and then stopped. “Greg?”

Greg stood as still as a statue, his head cocked to the side. No suit, for that matter, no button down anything – he was a vision in black tee shirt and gray jeans, barefoot… and no glasses. He blended in with the shadows in the room. Something was definitely wrong.

Wayne blinked. “Dude, what’s with the darkness?”

Greg reached behind himself and flicked a switch. The room flooded with light and Wayne flinched at the sudden brightness. Greg didn’t move, didn’t blink. “What do you want, Wayne?”

Wayne’s jaw dropped as everything sunk in. He waved a hand in Greg’s face, noting that the older man didn’t blink, but he now wore a bitter smile.

“And now you know, Weedhopper… I trust that you will keep your mouth shut about this?”

“Dude… um… Greg?” Wayne’s voice was soft, his touch light on Greg’s arm. “You’re… When? What happened?”

Greg gently removed Wayne’s hand with a sigh. “You might as well come in. This might take a while.” He turned and walked deeper into the apartment, Wayne following behind like a puppy. Greg moved easily and gracefully into the kitchen, then stopped at the refrigerator and pulled out two beers, and then turned to (almost) face Wayne. “In here, or on the couch? Here’s closer to the brews, but the couch is more comfortable.”

Wayne looked around the kitchen: spotless, gleaming, not a thing out of place. He shivered. It looked like a movie set, the only obviously used appliances were the microwave and the fridge. “Let’s go into the living room – I can always get the next round if we want one.”

With a nod, Greg led the way back into the living room. He sat on one end of the couch and silently handed Wayne one of the bottles as he sat down at the other end.

“It’s a secret that only Dan knows, and he’s promised never to reveal it. If he does, well… let’s just say that there are some things that Mr. Patterson would not want the IRS, Interpol, and the British Inland Revenue to find out. And that information is securely locked away where he will never find it. (God knows he’s tried in the past.)

“I’ve always had “weak” eyes. Worn glasses since I was a little kid, and the lenses just kept getting thicker over the years. Four-eyes became fish-eyes, a regular Mr. Limpet before the lights finally went out. Progressive, degenerative, all that I’ve got left is some sense of light and dark. The fans used to wonder why I wore colored lenses. It wasn’t because the stage lights were too bright – the added contrast let me roam the stage without falling flat on my face into the audience. That, and Dan’s voice niggling in my ear.

“You never asked yourself why I rarely wore wire-rimmed glasses? You’re shitting me, right? The plastic rims held a secret, my friend: a micro miniaturized speaker that pressed against the bone behind my ear.

“Really, no one ever knew. I think Ryan suspected… but he never actually came right out and confronted me. It’s not his style. Besides, I think that he still feels guilty for dumping me for Col. And Colin? Thank God he never found out – he would have mother-henned me to death, those big brown eyes of his moist as a cow’s. Eww… after all this, I can still see THAT quite clearly.

“Any who… by the time we were on “Drew’s Line” (and didn’t that put Dan’s knickers in a knot!) I was pretty much down to tunnel vision and not much else. A few well-timed snit fits about having to sing, and a tantrum that sent an ashtray flying into Drew’s door (and ashes all over his new rug) ensured that I wouldn’t have to stand by myself and sing solos. Irish Drinking Song was fine, because we’d all stand close together. I didn’t mind that.

“Green Screen was a godsend – all that open space with nothing to trip over, and lit well enough that I could tell where everyone was. I knew it wasn’t going to last, though. Even with taking advantage of the Disney animators, we were too pricey to be more than a short-term thing.

“By the time the show closed, all I wanted to do was get away. I did voice-over work, studio work, anything that wouldn’t involve a lot of roaming around, stuff that I could do from deep within my Fortress of Solitude. Why else do you think I had a recording studio put in?

“Jen left around that time, too. I just couldn’t stand her freakin’ watching over me like a mother hen. I love the fuck out of her – and always will… but I don’t want anyone’s pity. And her pitying me was even worse. Her ~hovering~ was even worse! Shit, I wasn’t dying or crippled – and she made me feel like a fucking toddler.”

Greg emptied the bottle and saluted Wayne. “And now, you know.”