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Las Vegas

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They fly into McCarran International on a Friday night and gamble on the casino floor until dawn. Kevin sleeps until four in the afternoon and wakes up starving. He grabs the Bellagio menu, orders a cheeseburger for himself, a salad for Adrian, and then two imported beers to wash them down.

He calls Adrian's room. "Get your pretty ass out of bed. I ordered us lunch."

"I'll be there," Adrian says, which Kevin knows means he has to get dressed and put gel in his curly hair, so he's actually kinda surprised when Adrian knocks on the door only fifteen minutes later.

He's even more surprised when Adrian leans in and kisses him hello, a gentle kiss, on the mouth. Kevin could never have seen that one coming in a million years, which is probably why he always loses money in this fucking city. Complete lack of clairvoyance.

Adrian leans sleepily against the doorframe and says, "Dude, I think I'm still a little wasted."

Kevin sighs, trying to think over the rumbling of his stomach, and says, "Well, if you're going to do that, get out of the hallway at least, smart guy."

Adrian grins. Comes in.

That's how it starts.


Adrian worries about what's going to happen when they're not so into this anymore. This being going out at night, getting drunk and fucking in the early morning, damp kisses and slow, teasing handjobs and falling asleep in each other's beds and getting woken up at awkward hours by friends and agents on the telephone. He worries they'll fuck up the politics on set, jealously counting lines and closeups. He worries that it'll be that much harder to pretend to best friends.

Kevin has lived in this town for almost twenty years, and that shit will drive you crazy if you let it. He's learned to give up worrying about anything.


The thing with girls in LA is, it's impossible to tell what they really want. Money, or a job, or an introduction to your agent. Kevin goes cruising for girls with Adrian because that's what they've always done, but really he's bored trying to guess which parts of a girl are fake and which are real.

He likes watching Adrian work his game, though. That's the part of Adrian that they put into Vince, the part that can focus his blue eyes on you and sell you anything.

The thing with Adrian is that sometimes it's impossible to tell what he really wants, too.


They talk about doing a movie together, after the show. A long time from now, hopefully, when the writers run out of stories to tell. Adrian's going to star, and Kevin's going to direct it. Being in front of the camera for the rest of his life isn't in his plans.

Between then and now, they've got this, tequila-soaked kisses in any place the cameras can't catch them. Breaks in Kevin's trailer, with the stereo playing Kings of Leon at top volume so that no one can hear the sounds that they make, Adrian pinning Kevin to the couch with one hand in his hair, the other on the front of jeans. They're in a hurry, but not so much that Adrian won't make him wait. Make him beg. Kevin lets him play his games. Kevin's got games of his own. They exchange kisses and dirty promises, and Adrian laughs and touches Kevin's flushed skin where it's warmest.


The whole set's taking bets on when Jerry's going to ask Jamie-Lynn to marry him, which means soon he and Dillon will be home and married with kids. Piven does his own thing. Kevin and Adrian might be the last of the bachelors. To the extent that this can still be counted as bachelorhood, curling up against Adrian on weeknights watching Lakers games, making out at halftime or whenever the score gets too wide to be interesting.

Leo called him once, after he got back from shooting in Italy or Egypt or where-ever and asked, "What's up with him, anyway?"

"Adrian? We're friends."

"Bullshit," Leo answered, calmly. Leo was the calmest person Kevin knew, before he met Adrian. "You and I are friends. You and that guy, that's something else."

That was before Vegas, though, and Kevin didn't have a clue what Leo meant.

And it doesn't make the first answer less true. They're friends, good friends, which is the reason this whole thing is so good.


The first ten years that Kevin lived in LA, there weren't a lot of men. There wasn't a lot of anything, really, just a merry-go-round of auditions and working and not working. There was Nicky, for a long while, then those months when she hated him, and then more work. The year he quit acting he fucked more guys than he can really remember, drove into West Hollywood and pretended not to care who saw him there. He didn't know for sure what he was going to do next, but he knew he was tired. When he got the call for Entourage, he told them them the same thing. That he was done.

He doesn't worry about rumours starting. He should, probably, but he knows that there isn't anything to tell. Kevin was a ghost in those months, never waking up in the same bed two nights in a row. Never leaving anything behind.

Kevin leaves his favourite t-shirt in Adrian's top drawer, along with a spare set of housekeys. It's not only that he trusts Adrian, though he does. It's that their fates are tied together, tightly, like a sailor's knot.


He goes shopping with Nicky. She takes him to the Beverly Center and drags him to some makeup store, and she's poking at lip gloss and perfume bottles for half an hour while he flirts with the salesgirls.

Nicky still worries about him, which is nice. He tells her that she doesn't have to. She tells him that he's an idiot, but she's told him that before.

"How's your," Nicky glances around, lowers her voice and finishes, "boyfriend?"

Kevin smiles fondly. "He is not my," he mimics her girly whisper, and her brusque California accent, "boyfriend. He's a friend."

"Friend." She mocks him in return, with air quotes. "With a big cock."

"You got it."

She rolls her eyes. "You're an idiot."

The first time Nicky met Adrian, they didn't really get along. Which was weird, because Adrian gets along with everyone. Nicky still seems to be waiting for Adrian to do something, fail some kind of test, but Kevin doesn't know exactly what.

When she's done, she takes him over to Armani Exchange and buys him half a dozen blue shirts that all look the same to him. "You'll look hot," she promises him. "For your boyfriend."

"Yeah, okay," is all Kevin says.


Lunch goes uneaten. Like a lot of other probably very bad ideas in the history of Hollywood, it starts in Las Vegas.