The Silenced Tale, стр. 46
And then, finally, Elgar is able to zoom in and get a good look at Andy’s face. His eyes are green. Elgar closes the photo, noting that it had been taken six months ago, and loads another, from last year. Then another, then another. Two years ago, before Elgar had ever met Forsyth, before he had known that he had accidentally created a magic system so perfect it actually worked. Three years ago, back before the TV deal had even begun. Four, and seven, and twelve years ago, when Andy was doing crappy commercials for instant rice, and dreaming of his first feature film. In all the photographs, Andy’s eyes are the same: a hazel that tended toward green, with flecks of dark brown around the outer edge of the iris.
Relief rushes through Elgar like someone has opened the top of his skull and poured vodka straight in. The tingle of it splashes down his limbs, and he feels suddenly lightheaded with giddy relief.
Oh, thank god.
He’s even relieved enough that the slight embarrassment that comes from the realization that he had shot off without even excusing himself isn’t enough to dull the sensation. He exits the stall, washes his hands, and returns to the table with a mumbled excuse about too much water at the reading today. Everyone accepts it with a little nod, and then resumes the habitual complaining about how hellish the traffic had been on the way to the restaurant—a perennial LA favorite for small talk.
A quick glance at Andy sweeps away the last lingering cobweb of doubt—his eyes, while green, have the hazel undertones and the brown flecks he’d seen in the man’s photos. They’re not the bright, burning emerald that Forsyth’s described.
As the adrenaline begins to seep away, Elgar finds his hands trembling. Juan shoots him more than one concerned glance, but Elgar just shakes his head, and listens to the small talk happening around him. He sips his wine until dinner has been ordered, eaten, and the dishes cleared away. That’s when the real conversation begins.
“So, here’s the thing,” Gil says, once the last plate has been removed. He sits forward to pour more wine out for everyone, finishing their second bottle. “Olivia and I have been back and forth a lot about audience demographics, and the reality is that the majority of your fan base is white dudes over the age of forty.”
Juan makes a confused noise, and looks as if he wants to raise his hand for permission to cut in. Gil smiles at him, and Elgar is struck with the impression that Gil might have developed a bit of a crush on his assistant. If he isn’t careful, Juan might be pinched out from under him and swept off into a fantasy romance of Hollywood parties and all-you-can-shop trips to Rodeo Drive.
Elgar hadn’t known that Gil was gay when he’d signed the contracts with Flageolet. But if he actually is, then all the concern he’s had with having to convince the producers of the series to add in the Kintyre and Bevel romance in the later seasons would evaporate. If they’d fought it, he’d planned on throwing Lucy at them, but now, maybe all he’d have to do to get it to happen is “accidentally” let it slip at their next story meeting.
Excellent. Fortuitous. Useful.
“I thought that was good, though?” Juan asks. “I mean, dudes over forty? That’s the exact demographic that still engages in wall-of-eyes appointment viewing.”
Olivia raises her eyebrows at Elgar, impressed by his choice of help. “True, Juan. But they’re not brand ambassadors, not the way the Tumblr generation is. And it’s the engaged, convention-going cosplayers who pulled Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit into the mainstream, far more than fans of the books ever did. The creative engagement of fans between fifteen and twenty-five, primarily but not necessarily all female, is a demographic that we need to encourage to really get a groundswell going. It’s the cosplayers, the gif-makers, the fanficcers, you know?”
Juan laughs, delighted. “Oh, yeah, I know. Count me among that crowd.”
“Half the writing staff on the show, too,” Gil says. “It’s nice having people so invested in the story on our team.”
Elgar blinks, startled. “You fic?”
Juan grins cheekily at his boss. “I read ’em. And, to be honest, I’ve always wanted to cosplay.”
“Then you’re gonna love this,” Gil says. He reaches out and presses his hand over Juan’s arm. It’s right over where his assistant’s bandage is, and Juan winces and shifts just enough for Gil’s touch to move off the wound, but not enough that his hand drops away completely. Gil’s smile grows softer, a little sweeter, and Elgar has to look away.
Not because it’s gross, or uncomfortable, but because it reminds him sharply of how alone he is. He hasn’t had a real girlfriend since 1998, when Tiffany had told him she was sick of his condescending douchebaggery and slammed off in a huff. She’d moved to Indiana, last he’d heard, and was married, running a hobby ranch, and had three boys. Since then, it’d only been one-night stands at cons, nothing more than a bit of fun for him and a notch on a star-fuckers bedpost for the girls. But even those were growing fewer and further between. He isn’t a hot name anymore, the kind that a certain kind of young woman likes to add to their tally books. He’s aged out. He’s been coasting on the popularity of The Tales of Kintyre Turn for too long. Wanting to be important, wanting to be recognized and relevant again, that was half the reason he’d begun the Shuttleborn series at all, to be honest.
“Love