wouldbedorothy: (galerandy photoshoot)
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Title: Redirection
Fandom/Pairing: Gale/Randy RPS
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 780
Summary: Gale has a weird-ass dream. Dream Randy eludes him. Dorky Gale POV :)
Disclaimer: My brain made this up.
Author's Note: I dreamt Gale's dream a few years ago. Typed it up into something nonsensical. Posted it here for less than an hour, I think, before I deleted it. Found it on my computer yesterday, got some mild amusement out of it, added a line or two. I will probably only ever write one more fic for G/R (*someday* one last part of ITF universe, I think) in my life, so why the fuck not offer whatever I have, even the runty li'l rejects? lol




Redirection
by AHS


So… I had this dream.

I have some fucking strange things going on in my head, especially when I’m asleep, and fairly often starring him, but I still don’t really know what to make of this.

Randy was in a show, a big Broadway type. That’s not surprising. But I was there. Still not that surprising, but I wasn’t just… You know how dreams really don’t make sense and something will be two things at once? Like, you’ll know that you’re in your house, but it looks like your high school auditorium? Or you’re playing catch with who you know is your dad but he looks like Robin Williams as Mork? (No? Just me?) I was watching the show from the audience, but it was also like I was in the show.

It reminded me of Cabaret, kind of slinky like that. But shinier, not as dark. No fucking clue what it was about. Randy was one of a pair of supporting guys, the two of them like a mini-chorus or something. They were wearing silver clothes and dark smudgy eyeliner and I guess they were supposed to look alike. The other guy had similar hair, but they didn’t look alike at all, except maybe from the back row. Randy was gorgeous, the other guy just a not particularly memorable imitation.

Next thing I knew, I’d come into it, truly. Dropped right in the middle of it. Not even from the audience. I was a character but still myself, still Gale, coming into the musical from out of a movie, or vice versa, or… fuck, I don't know. But suddenly I was with the other guy. Randy had disappeared. And Imitation sang me a very memorable line.

“There’s not much you can do with a woman.”

Swear to God. I can still hear him! I can still fucking hum the tune of that one line, low-voiced, sexy. And yeah, he meant it sexually, and then Not Randy was kissing me, ready to prove his point, I guess. And at the same time that I was there, making out with this guy, I was also watching it happen. Watching, excitedly waiting for me to hook up with Randy’s character. That was supposed to happen, right? I knew that had to be what was coming, had to be why I was there. Then I could see there were three - me and Not Randy AND Randy - and that meant any moment it was gonna be us two.

Cue close-up on “Randy.” Turned out it wasn’t him but a woman with fucking short blond hair! I felt… defeated. She looked pissed off (maybe she heard the “not much you can do with a woman” line and took offense) and left. My Randy was still gone, I don’t know where. The other guy, maybe he was still there, but it didn't matter. All I remember is being sad, wondering why no Randy for me.

Actually… the very last thing I remember thinking in the dream… is that maybe Randy had designed it that way, and why didn't he want me.

***

I’m not much for… dream journaling, or whatever. But when I woke up that morning, I had to write all that shit down. (On the back of a grocery receipt, first thing I found, which I then shoved in a drawer under my socks and underwear.)

About three months later, in the wee hours, missing him pretty fucking spectacularly (and mayhaps not perfectly sober), I rescued the dream receipt and recounted it to him in an email, all jumbled and nonsensical and revealing and pathetic.

Just adding, at the end…

It’s not actually true that there's not much you can do with a woman. But when there’s one man you want to be with, it feels true.

***

Three hours later, I got this email back.


You look better in eyeliner than I do.

Dream Randy is a douche. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.



***

Three days later, he showed up on my doorstep with a stupid, adorable silver cap on his head and smudgysexy eyeliner eyes, looking too beyond amazing to be described as anything so clichéd as a dream come true.

But... yeah.

“If I were directing your dreams, they would end very differently.”

“Fuck the dreams, DiCaprio. What can you do about my reality?”

He leaned in and smiled against my mouth and was my Randy in my arms, those eyes flashing promises of much we could and would do.

“And after that, we're going out and I'm buying you some notebooks, some real paper. You're writing on receipts. That's fucking sad, Gale.”
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