Page 94 of Total Creative Control
Lewis grunted. Aaron glared at him.
Tag was oblivious. “But if I don’t, I’d probably still act—even if it was only in am-dram, you know? For the love of it.”
Onlyin am-dram.
“But that’s just it,” Aaron said. “What’s wrongwith am-dram? What’s wrong with amateur musicians playing in the pub on the weekend? What’s wrong with people painting by numbers because painting gives them joy? Why is art only considered worthwhile if it brings in money? Why do you only get to call yourself an artist if you do it as your job?”
There was a beat of silence amid the noise of the party. Aaron was aware he’d climbed onto a soapbox and was about to awkwardly climb off again when Lewis said, “You’re talking about the democratisation of creativity. Getting rid of the gatekeepers.”
Surprised, Aaron looked at him. Lewis had that little stitch between his brows that he got when he was figuring something out. “Yes,” Aaron said. “Yes, exactly. We all have creative souls that need feeding. Why tell people it’s not worth writing, or painting, or singing unless they’re going to make a living at it?”
“Nobody’s stopping people from doing any of that,” Lewis pointed out. “But why not create your own, original stuff?”
“Because…” How to explain? “Because when you respond to a story through fanfiction, or fan art, or whatever floats your boat, you become part of a community. Part of a conversation with other fans, with other fic writers—sometimes even with its original creators.”
Lewis cocked his head. “So you’d call fanfiction a...response to the original work?” he said slowly. “A reply?”
“Call and response, exactly.” Spiralling excitement surged through him as he realised that Lewis was starting to understand. “Fanfic writers build on the original work and then on each other’s work. It’s a… an ongoing transformation of the original. And if the creators are engaged with their fans, they’ll transform the original work in response. There’s a feedback loop.”
Lewis’s eyes hadn’t left his, their gazes locked. “You mean like with Skye and Faolán. Their relationship.”
Aaron shrugged, blushing as he remembered the last time they’d discussed that particular topic. “There are lots of examples.”
“But that’s whatyou’retalking about. You think I should...respond to the fans’ interpretation of their relationship—yourinterpretation of it.”
“I think all shows benefit when their creators engage with fandoms, but I’m not saying you have to—”
“But I have been engaging, haven’t I?” Lewis was staring at him now, an odd look on his face. “That’sexactlywhat I’ve been doing for the past three years, with you. Call and response.”
Aaron’s heart kicked wildly. Call and response indeed. The call of Lewis, and Aaron’s response—his fanfic, his professional devotion, his physical obsession. Each element tidily compartmentalised to enable him to avoid the truth that had burst free at Safehaven.
A truth Aaron wished he could still avoid. Could still chop up into manageable pieces.
Lewis ran a hand through his hair, then looked up, eyes wide, as though a thought had just struck him. “Fuck, it started the day I met you,” he said. “I was going to kill Faolán off after the season three cliff-hanger, but then you said, ‘don’t bury your gays’ and I...”
Aaron could only stare, transfixed by the bright look of epiphany in Lewis’s eyes. It was painful to see, agonising to hear Lewis acknowledge the significance of their creative relationship now that Aaron knew it would never be anything more.
That a professional partnership was all Lewis had ever wanted.
Aaron tore his gaze away, eyes prickling. He swallowed, or tried to, his throat thick with emotion. “I’m going to get a beer,” he said abruptly. “Tag, you want anything?”
“Another Zombie?” Tag lifted his empty glass. “But I’ll come with you.”
Aaron could hardly tell him no, despite his urgent need for a moment alone to unscramble his thoughts. Feeling Lewis’s gaze on his back, Aaron ploughed into the crowd, Tag weaving ahead of him, getting a lot of attention in those silver shorts. And clearly loving it. He was a very friendly guy, Tag. Very tactile.
Aaron moved more slowly, dropping back when Tag reached the bar and wiggled in next to Mason. And suddenly, Aaron couldn’t face the crowds. Or the bar.
Or Tag.
He took a sharp left turn and headed towards the loos in search of solitude. But there were too many people coming in and out, so he diverted towards a green emergency exit sign at the end of the hotel corridor, pushed on the bar across the door—prayed he wasn’t about to set off an alarm—and stepped out into the night.
It had been a bright day, warm for the time of year, but the evening was fresh, crisp with the scent of autumn. Even here, in the centre of London, there was a slight woodsmoke tang in the air.
He found himself in what looked like a delivery bay at the side of the building, the constant swish of traffic on the Uxbridge Road muted by the bulk of the hotel. Someone was singing off-key in the distance, horns tooted, and laughter and music drifted out from the party.
Aaron leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, allowing the air to chill his heated skin as his thoughts circled back to Lewis. For a moment, it had felt like Lewis had seen and accepted a part of Aaron that nobody outside fandom had ever understood before. Or valued.
Colin certainly hadn’t.