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Improvisation	By : Rina76 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Tokio Hotel Views: 1721 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Georg Listing, Tom Kaulitz, Bill Kaulitz or any members of Tokio Hotel. This story is a complete work of fiction and not true. I don't own this fandom am not making any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: It is now five years later. Has Georg finally gotten over Tom?

The waitress brings over a cappuccino, placing it on the laminated table in front of him, cocoa powder dusted across the creamy foam topping the mug, the heady scent of coffee filling the air.

“Thank you,” Georg says courteously and the girl wearing the black T-shirt and apron smiles, looking at him inquisitively, as if wondering where she’s seen him before. It’s a look Georg is used to and if she asks who he is, he will tell her but he hopes she doesn’t. He just wants to be left alone to drink his cappuccino in peace. The waitress seems as though she’s about to say something to him but two elderly ladies walk through the door and her attention shifts to them. She goes over to serve the new customers. Georg is relieved, slumping into his booth seat, putting his elbows on the table and curling his hands around the hot mug, warming his fingers, chilled from the winter cold outside. It’s snowing lightly, decorating the trees with tufts of white. His coat and scarf are folded beside him and a vintage tweed golf cap is perched on top of his head, pulled down low over his forehead in an attempt to hide his eyes. He hasn’t had a haircut for months and lengthy straight locks drape past the nape of his neck, a shining golden-brown colour now. In another life, he could have passed for a long-haired musician in a band or something. He still plays guitar, but only as a hobby.

The café he’s sitting in is decorated with fifties nostalgia including a jukebox in one corner and there’s a wall covered in black and white photographs depicting movie stars and music legends of that era, such as Marilyn Monroe and Buddy Holly. There are framed pictures of long, sleek, shiny classic cars complimented by old license plates along with vinyl records hanging from the ceiling with fishing line, the black discs turning slowly in the centrally-heated air of the room. The walls are painted in bright and cheerful colours like hot pink and yellow. The checkered linoleum floor and padded booth style seating complete the retro image. Georg loves interesting and unique places like this and the fact that it’s small and quiet is what draws him in and keeps him away from other, busier coffee houses where it’s all hustle and bustle, noisy talking, ringing cell phones and clinking spoons. It’s busy enough in New York City and sometimes he just needs to get away from it all, from all the crowds of people and their jostling and loud-mouthed rudeness. There is a television mounted in one corner of the café and he notices that it’s playing a film starring James Dean whose expressive face is suitably angst-ridden.

Georg smiles wryly, more of a grimace. He can’t look at an image of James Dean now without thinking back to five years ago, when he and his co-star at the time were having dinner in another themed establishment that happened to feature a large poster of the late actor. Tom had wanted to steal it off the wall and he probably would have if the picture hadn’t been so big. Georg sighs and rips open a packet of sweetener, tipping the tiny white rocks into the mug and stirring the cappuccino with a teaspoon. It seems as though everywhere he goes something reminds him of Tom Trumper. An object, a colour, even a smell. At any given time of the day Georg is reminded of what he lost, what he couldn’t keep and feels the familiar blunt ache in his chest, wishing he could get his ex-lover out of his head. It’s even harder to forget his ex now that Georg’s due to start filming in a few days, right here in New York City, the very place where Tom resides.

Georg doesn’t have Tom’s current address but when he walks past a row of nice apartments, the older man looks up and wonders if Tom lives in any of them. When he passes a guitar store, Georg wonders if that’s where Tom buys his strings and picks from. When Georg eats in a restaurant, he wonders if Tom has ever eaten there. When he sits on a bench in a park, he wonders if Tom’s ever sat there. He thinks he sees the boy on every street corner, in a cab or riding the subway, and his heart leaps but it’s always Georg’s mind playing tricks on him. It’s always somebody else. Tom’s probably not even here right now; too busy jetting around the world touring with his band and performing to sold-out crowds.

Tom and Bill’s band finally made it big and they’ve released two chart-topping albums already, becoming well-known all over the globe. When he’s driving his car, Georg often hears their music and Bill’s distinctive vocals on the airwaves. He also hears Tom’s voice, talking and joking when being interviewed by radio hosts, or proudly introducing one of their songs. Georg sees Tom’s face on TV in their stylish rock video clips, and on printed flyers plastered upon brick walls around the city, advertising upcoming shows. In newsstands, there are usually music magazines featuring the band on the cover or inside with an accompanying article and photoshoot. In the photos, Tom is usually posed intimately with Bill, reminding Georg that the two are still very much a couple, still very much like the twins Tom used to say they were. In fact, Tom mentions their twin-like bond in interviews, saying that they’re so close, he and Bill know what each other is thinking without having to say it. They’re still very much in love. How Tom finds the time to maintain a lasting relationship with such a hectic schedule is an impressive feat. And then there are the movies.

Tom’s acting career has also rapidly taken off thanks to his breakout role as a white kid from the hood who becomes a hugely successful boxing champion. It’s the next film he made after his nerdy role as Joseph Reisinger, and the reason for the cornrows Tom was wearing when Georg saw him last. This gritty, powerful role got Tom noticed by movie critics all over the world. He trained like a real boxer and gained a ton of muscle, which also got him noticed by legions of new fans, both male and female. Georg has always firmly believed that it takes just one role to change an actor from a nobody to a somebody. It doesn’t matter how long a person has been working in the industry or how many films they have listed in their biography; it takes just one pivotal part in a motion picture or television show to get noticed by the rest of the world and be thrust into sudden stardom. ‘Boxer Boy’ was that pivotal part for Tom. Before, he was just another struggling actor/musician with a pretty face; now he’s a celebrity with film offers being thrown at him from all directions.

Georg often wonders how Tom feels about his new-found fame and if he has changed much because of it. After this long you’d think Georg would have forgotten Tom or at least moved on but the older actor is finding that very difficult to do. He has no doubts that Tom has totally moved on with his life and doesn’t even spare him a second thought. When the two of them were co-stars Georg was so sure at the time that they had something special between them but he’s had to face the notion that it had all been wishful thinking; he just wanted it so much he convinced himself that there was more to the affair than what there actually was. He was so sure that they could be long-term lovers and be very happy together but it didn’t work out that way.

Along with the regret of missed opportunities, there is anger inside Georg, dulled by the passing of time but not gone. He’s angry at himself for falling in too deep and he’s angry at Tom for letting him do that, for hurting him so badly. When he starts dwelling on Tom’s unexpected desertion, the dual emotions of anger and pain rise inside Georg, eating away at him like acid. There’s also a lot of guilt. Since he’s had five whole years to think about it, Georg has come to realise that he was just as culpable as Tom in cheating on Billinda, just as guilty, just as selfish. Georg knew full well that Bill was Tom’s girlfriend and he still slept with Tom anyway. He has no idea if Bill knows what happened behind her back but Georg feels so bad about it, about what he did. He wishes he had waited and not jumped into bed with Tom the first chance he got. Tom may have cheated on Bill but Georg helped him do it so that makes him a cheater as well. He should have done the honourable thing, the right thing, and said no when Tom gave him that damn condom. He should have waited until Tom broke up with Bill.

However, as Georg clearly recalls, that never happened. Tom didn’t break up with her. Even if Georg had waited, Tom still would have chosen Billinda over him and knowing that still hurts. It still stings, every day, like a splinter stuck deep in Georg’s flesh that he can’t pull free. To be completely fair, Tom was only eighteen years old back then and had no fucking clue what he was doing. He was only a goddamn kid. Georg should have realised that and stopped expecting so much from him. Georg should have acted like the adult he was supposed to be. He should have walked away first.

But he didn’t.

After he and Tom separated, Georg embarked on a few other romantic partnerships, including Hannah Dallas, and none of those lasted either. He has been out on many casual dates and experienced several one-night stands but Georg has not met a single person that even remotely compares to his spellbinding ex-boyfriend. Even the most attractive supermodels on the catwalks of Paris seem ordinary and fade in comparison to Tom’s chocolate-eyed beauty. It doesn’t matter who he dates; the only one Georg wants to be with is Tom, though he knows his desire is nothing more than an improbable flight of the imagination, a dog-eared page in his little black book of fantasies never to be fulfilled.

With every one of his relationships, Georg can’t help comparing them to what he had with Tom and doesn’t want to settle for less, for something substandard. As such he’s currently single again and he’s not even looking for anyone else. It’s not that he has given up on love; it’s just that his lack of success in the dating department has made him start to think that there is something wrong with him. He’s starting to think that he’s disrupting his own happiness by hanging onto the past. Georg knows it’s not productive for him to be reflecting upon days gone by, on what could have been. It was a long time ago and he really should be focusing on the future. He really should let it go.

Sighing again, Georg scoops up a spoonful of the froth on top of his cappuccino, putting it into his mouth and letting it dissolve upon his tongue, trying to think of anything else but a certain young man with darkly hypnotic almond-shaped eyes and the sweetest mouth he’s ever tasted. He licks the foam from his upper lip and sets his spoon down on the saucer. In the background of the café he can hear the waitress using the coffee machine behind the counter, can hear the low murmurs of customers talking quietly, the film playing on TV at low volume, the creak of the door as it opens, permitting the honk of horns and sounds of traffic to momentarily blare inside along with a blast of cold air. He tunes all that out, sipping his strong beverage and allowing his mind to wander towards the film he’s working on soon, the scenes he’s going to shoot, all the preparation he’s going to do and has already done.

Every time he begins a new role, he dives head first into it, thoroughly researching and studying the traits of the character, altering his appearance by either growing his hair or cutting it, losing weight or gaining it, dieting or working out, tanning or letting himself go pale. He watches other people, picking up nuances and gestures that might be useful to him - the way they walk, move and hold themselves, the way they drink from a glass or sit in a chair. He listens to their voices, storing away tones and accents and rhythms of speech, practising the movements and dialogue when he’s alone, not just getting into character – BECOMING the character, transforming himself, making himself over, changing into a whole other being. Every role he accepts is taken on with the goal to perform to the utmost best of his ability, to push himself, to test himself, to stretch the limits of his talent and imagination.

If he can touch just one person with his performance, to tug one heart-string or make one tear fall, to shock, stun or cause outrage in just one individual, if he makes just one person think and feel and be affected by watching him on screen, whether the emotions are good or bad, then he knows that he’s achieved his goal. But he’s never fully satisfied. The perfectionist in him always demands more. He’s constantly searching for different parts, roles that he hasn’t played before, something new and exciting and challenging. It is this craving for the ultimate role - the ultimate performance - that keeps Georg motivated every day and keeps his zeal and zest alive, even when the rest of his life isn’t going so well. When all else fails, at least he has his craft, his art. In the café that morning, he feels restless and impatient, wanting to get to work as soon as possible so he doesn’t have time to sit around and think about personal things the way he’s trying not to do right now.

“Nice hair.”

The voice snaps Georg out of his concentrated reverie and he looks up, not recognizing the stranger for a moment but almost dropping his mug when he does.

“Oh my God!” Georg exclaims under his breath, hurriedly setting his drink down and gawping at the figure beside him as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. But it’s real, all right. It’s Tom fucking Trumper; solid, corporeal, 3D. He’s not a vision or a trick of the light. He’s physically standing right there by the table, so close Georg could reach out and touch him if he weren’t stunned into dumb immobility. Tom is dressed in black pants, a white top with frayed holes all over it, a puffy bomber jacket, wool-lined gloves and designer sneakers. He’s carrying a woolen hat that he was wearing outside, a few snowflakes melting on the knitted headwear. His hair is still long, now a shade of natural brown, and is tied back into a messy ponytail-bun. Georg keeps staring, his focal point dropping down to the scruffy mass of dark whiskers covering Tom’s cheeks, chin and upper lip - the main reason why Georg didn’t identify him at first. Tom looks so different with a beard. The younger actor is carrying a backpack and is gazing at Georg with those captivating chocolate eyes, smiling at him with those full lips (now pierced in two places), looking somewhat like a cross between a male model and a hobo.

When the full force of Tom’s sudden appearance hits him, Georg loses his breath for a few moments, pulse thudding through his veins. Fuck, he’d almost forgotten how extraordinarily beautiful Tom is. Even the beard can’t lessen the impact of his striking features. If anything, it highlights them even further. Georg had almost forgotten how much Tom could affect him and all the guy is doing is standing there. Reeling from the shock of this unforeseen visit, Georg almost blurts out that he was just thinking about Tom but then realizes that he thinks of Tom every single day. It’s just that the dude doesn’t usually appear out of thin air afterwards. It’s like the cappuccino genie living in his mug decided to grant him a wish without telling him. It’s incredible to see his past co-star again but at the same time Georg wishes he’d had some warning so he could prepare himself. He doesn’t know what to say. All he can do is stare.

Not sure how to take the expression on Georg’s face - somewhere between bewildered astonishment and stark fear - Tom’s smile fades and he clears his throat apprehensively. “Um. Hi, Georg.”

Instead of some witty and flippant greeting that would prove how so over Tom he is, Georg stutters out a very gauche, “What...what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Tom reminds him.

Feeling like a moron, Georg mutters, “Right. Of course you do.”

“Not right here in this café, obviously,” Tom continues with an awkward laugh. “But this is my city.”

“Right,” Georg mutters again, wanting to strangle his own tongue for being so useless and not coming up with anything helpful to say. And he’s quite aware that he’s beginning to tremble with nerves. However, it seems that he’s not the only nervous one – Tom is fidgeting with the strap of his backpack and chewing his lip uncertainly.

“Did I interrupt something?” Tom ventures. “You looked like you were deep in thought.”

“No. Uh. Not really.” Georg’s reply tumbles out clumsily. “I was...I was just thinking about...”

You.

“Work,” he finishes lamely.

Tom flicks his lip-rings, shifting from one foot to the other. “Oh. If I’m being a nuisance I can leave you to it.”

“No, don’t go,” Georg offers, a little too hastily. He almost blushes but catches himself in time. “I mean, I can think about work anytime. It’s not that important. Well, it is but you’re more...” At the revealing slip, Georg does blush, thanking God he can hide behind his hair now. He lowers his eyes to the remains of his cappuccino, clutching his shaking fingers around the mug and mentally kicking his own butt for being such a desperate loser. He ends his rambling by saying quietly, “You’re more than welcome to stay, Tom.”

“Are you sure?”

Georg nods mutely, not trusting himself to speak for fear of saying something else stupid, not even trusting himself to look at Tom in case his eyes give away his real feelings.

Tom squints at him. The tension and awkwardness emanating from Georg’s stiff seated figure can almost be scooped out of the air with a soup ladle. It seems as though he is extremely uncomfortable with Tom being here but it too polite to say so. And Tom doesn’t want to stay where he’s not wanted.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have bothered you,” he mumbles, turning away in disappointment. He halts when Georg reaches out and catches his jacket sleeve. Tom peers down at the older man with a question on his face.

“Please don’t leave,” Georg says softly, appearing contrite and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome. I’m just...I...You surprised me, is all. Stay. Have a coffee with me. We can talk, catch up.”

“Are you sure?” Tom asks again, unwilling to be a hindrance.

“Yes.” Georg squeezes his arm reassuringly. “Come on. Sit down. Let me buy you a coffee. For old time’s sake.” When Tom keeps peering at him indecisively, poised on the brink of fleeing, Georg tries cracking a joke.

“Unless you’d rather have a bourbon and orange soda?”

That quip breaks the ice and Tom smiles in relief, his whole body loosening up.

“Naw, coffee will be fine, man.” Tom slips into the other side of the padded booth, dumping his backpack on the seat beside him. “But I can buy my own. I actually have money in the bank now. I’m almost as rich as you, motherfucker,” he jests, grinning.

Unable to resist that cheeky, teasing grin, Georg smiles back and inexplicably the years melt away and along with them go his hurt and pain, replaced with a bubbly feeling of elation. He pulls off his cap, not caring who sees him now.

“Put your wallet away, kid. It’s my shout,” he breezily states, indicating to the waitress who takes Tom’s order for an extra-large latte and Georg’s request for another cappuccino. The girl in the apron gives Tom a peculiar look this time, her eyes going large as she recognizes him. Tom, not in the mood for being fawned over, immediately scowls at her, effectively sending her scurrying away with her pen and paper. That scowl is a fantastic fan repellent and Georg would like to be able to do it to avoid being harassed but if he attempts to imitate Tom’s surly expression he’ll probably only end up looking constipated.

“So, have fame and riches affected you? Have you turned into a little snob now?” Georg’s kidding earns him a rude, upthrust middle finger and he laughs. “Guess not.”

“I’m still me,” Tom declares, peeling off his gloves and setting them on the table, revealing that he has numbers tattooed across each of his fingers on both hands. “I just get paid better for what I do now and can indulge in a few more luxuries.” He tilts his head at Georg, eyes full of interest. “So, why are you in NYC, bro?”

“Movie,” Georg volunteers. “Shooting starts in a couple of days. They’re putting me up in there.” He gestures out the window to a tall building situated a few blocks away. It’s a major hotel.

“Sweet,” Tom remarks, glancing at the building and back at Georg. “Is that why you grew your hair?”

“Yeah. I’m playing a vampire,” Georg confesses. “I didn’t want to have fake-looking extensions. I want it to look real.”

Tom appears dubious. “You’re not playing one of those weak-ass sparkly vampires, are you?”

Georg chuckles. “No. A Dracula kind of vampire. You know, one with actual fangs? I get to kick ass and kill a lot of people.”

“Awesome,” Tom answers approvingly, trying to picture Georg with unnaturally glowing eyes and two sharp canine teeth and deciding it would look super sexy.

As Tom is checking him out, Georg says ruefully, “I guess I look more like the old man you used to call me now, don’t I?” Having turned thirty just over six months ago, Georg knows that he has physically aged during the last five years and the fact that he refuses Botox or plastic surgery doesn’t help any.

“You look older,” Tom replies truthfully, noticing that the lines on Georg’s forehead and at the edges of his eyes have deepened, giving him a more mature appearance. “But not old. You were never old. You looked good then and you still look good now, man.”

A corner of Georg’s mouth turns up, delighted with the compliment. “Thanks. And what’s this, huh?” he returns, indicating to Tom’s chin-whiskers. “I almost didn’t recognize you with all the fuzz.”

Tom’s fingers unconsciously go up to his abundant facial growth. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no. It really suits you,” Georg enthuses, surveying Tom’ face, noting how the darkness of the beard intensifies the colour of the other actor’s chocolate eyes. The whiskers add a rough, untamed edge to Tom’s previously pretty-perfect features.

“It’s for my current role. I play a homeless dude who wins a multimillion dollar court case. I get to work with Denzel Washington. He plays my lawyer.” Tom grins, having always wanted to land a co-starring part with such a legendary actor.

“Congratulations. You earned it.” Admiration colours Georg’s voice. “I always knew you always were destined for greatness, Tom.”

Tom smiles and ducks his head, peeking up at Georg through feathery lashes, a coy sparkle in his eyes. Georg smiles back. He realizes with a small jolt that they are flirting, which is probably not a wise idea considering how their affair ended, but it feels so good to have Tom look at him like that again, he doesn’t care. He’s on too much of a high.

“So, how have you been, kid?” Georg asks lightly. “Keeping out of trouble?”

“Trying to,” Tom drawls, ripping open a packet of sugar and pouring it onto the table top. “You’ll be pleased to know that I stopped smoking pot.”

“Did you really?”

“Yeah. The more my career took off, the less I craved it. I was too busy doing other things that I enjoyed. One day, I finally realised that I didn’t need it anymore. It was just a habit, so I broke it and quit for good.”

“Well done,” Georg commends him, noting that the other young man does look healthier than when Georg saw him last. Tom’s complexion seems clearer and the whites of his eyes are brighter. He actually has a glow about him, a kind of purity that shines out from beneath his skin. That aura was there back then when they were working together but is much more visible now. Giving up drugs definitely does improve one’s appearance, Georg decides.

“And I also took your advice about seeking help for my issues,” Tom reveals, adding more sugar to the small mound on the table in front of him.

“You saw a shrink?”

“I found a very nice, and very patient, therapist who’s been helping me deal with all the crap from my past. I didn’t quite know how messed up I was until she helped me see it,” the bearded actor acknowledges. “With her encouragement, I’ve spoken to my dad and told him all the shit mom said and did to me. With him being away so much at work, he honestly had no idea she was doing that. He said we’re both much better off not having her in our lives anymore. He apologised for not being there for me when I was a kid and has made a real effort to try and be a better father and be supportive of what I do. He’s been watching my movies and comes to my concerts when he can. We speak on the phone once a week and catch up regularly for lunch and stuff.”

“That’s really, really great, Tom,” Georg praises him. “I’m so glad you got the help you needed. And that you sorted things out with your dad. It’s very mature of you to forgive him. You’re a good son.”

Tom shrugs modestly but he’s smiling. Georg watches as the second male licks his fingertip, swirls in it in the pile of sugar on the table and then brings it back to his mouth, sucking off the collected white particles, his pink tongue swiping up any strays clinging to his pierced lips. The two parallel rings at the edge of his mouth draw attention to how full and soft his lower lip is. It’s not until he is asked a question that Georg realises he’s been blatantly staring at Tom’s mouth.

“Uh...sorry,” he stammers, guiltily dragging his eyes back up to Tom’s. “What did you say?”

Tom smirks, knowing why Georg is distracted. “I said: What about you? Are you still an upstanding moral citizen?”

“Not always,” the older male confesses.

“What have you done?”

“Well, for example, I crashed my truck.”

“The rust bucket?”

“Yeah. I rolled it three times and walked away with a few cuts. Vehicle was a write off, though.”

Tom laughs. “It was a write off before you crashed it, dude. What, were you speeding?”

Ashamedly, Georg rubs his neck. “Kind of. And last year I got arrested for public drunkenness. Apparently I was trying to ride a bronze statue of a horse in the middle of a city square.”

Laughing even harder, Tom says, “I guess I rubbed off on you, huh?”

Georg snorts. “I guess you did. But at least I have a new car now.”

“Me too. I got a new bike as well. A classic-looking custom Triumph,” Tom elaborates. “I have three bikes, actually.”

“Nice,” Georg replies in approval. “I still have my Harley. One is enough for me.”

Just then, their beverages arrive and Tom sets about sweetening his and mixing it, accidentally slopping the beverage over the edge of the tall glass. The old him wouldn’t have given a damn and left the mess there on the table for the waitress to clean but the new him considerately wipes the spillage up with a napkin, also cleaning up the leftover sugar he’d tipped out.

“I saw those jeans advertisements you modeled for,” Georg broaches, tapping a teaspoon on his mug. “Never thought I’d see the day when Tom Trumper wore pants that actually fit.”

“Yeah, I did look kind of stupid before,” Tom acknowledges, gazing into his latte. “I guess I was hiding behind those baggy clothes but not anymore. Now I’m more comfortable with who I am.”

“And I see you also raise money and awareness for various charities and campaigns, like the Hugs for Children fund?”

“I do. If I can use my fame to help kids suffering from poverty or abuse, then I feel like I’m doing something good for the world, not just taking from it.”

“Actor, musician, model and spokesperson,” Georg muses thoughtfully. “You know, you’re turning into the quite the diverse businessman.”

Tom looks smug. “You’re impressed, aren’t you?”

“I am actually,” Georg divulges with a slight smile. “You’ve really grown.”

“Like your hair,” Tom says, leaning over the table and gently grasping a section of Georg’s lengthy mane. Oh sweet Lord, Georg thinks, tensing and swallowing, his heart doing acrobatics in his chest. Tom is touching his hair! Not that it means anything. Try telling that to his scalp which is tingling beneath his hair, as if it remembers the touch of Tom’s fingers and is welcoming them back.

“Wow. So shiny and smooth,” Tom remarks, stroking Georg’s long locks, pleasantly amazed by the glossy texture. “I bet you have to use a straightening iron every day to get it to look like that, huh?”

Incapable of any other thought besides how much he has missed the boy, Georg is milliseconds away from grabbing Tom’s wrist and hungrily kissing his tattooed fingers but before he can do that the younger male sits back in his seat and picks up his latte. Georg lets out a breath, extremely thankful that he hadn’t given in to that brief moment of madness. If he’d done it, if he’d actually kissed Tom’s hand, he would have been quite embarrassed with himself.

“Yeah, it’s a fair bit of maintenance,” Georg admits about his new mane. “What do the numbers on your fingers mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, this is my time of birth,” Tom says, extending his right hand so Georg can see the numerals 0620 inked on his flesh. “And on the other hand is when my brother was born, ten minutes later. He’s still a huge part of my life and my identity, even if he’s not here physically with me.”

“It’s a beautiful tribute,” Georg comments, noting how Tom doesn’t sound sad talking about his lost twin anymore, only loving and full of pride. “Your brother would be very proud of you and what you’ve accomplished. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thanks.” Tom takes a long sip of his milky coffee, his chocolate eyes smiling at Georg over the rim of the glass mug as if he’s enjoying this little rendezvous very much. His lashes are still as thick and pretty as ever.

“God, it’s good to see you again, Tom,” the older actor murmurs, unable to contain his affection for his ex-co-star.

“You too. You know, I was almost too afraid to come in here,” the tattooed musician discloses bashfully. “I was across the street buying cigarettes and spotted you coming this way so I followed you. I looked through the window to make sure I hadn’t gotten you mixed up with some other dude and then stood outside for five minutes debating whether or not to come in and say hi.”

Georg frowns, hands cupped around his mug. “Why’d you do that?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d even talk to me. I mean, after what happened, you know...with us...” Tom trails off uncomfortably, gaze shifting downwards.

Georg waves aside his misgivings. “Hell, that was years ago. Water under the bridge,” he says flippantly, conveniently omitting the fact that he’d only been brooding over it minutes before.

“So, we’re okay, then?” Tom asks, eyes large and anxious.

“Well, I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” Georg retorts. His voice softens fondly. “Tom, I told you a long time ago that no matter what, I’d always be your friend. I still mean that.”

Tom smiles, remembering that statement. “Cool. I’d like us to be friends again.”

Thankful that their first meeting has been a positive one, Georg smiles back. “Me too.”

“Hey, look. James Dean,” Tom chirps, finally spotting the television. For the next hour the two old friends drink coffee and chat, catching up on each other’s lives, the projects they’ve completed and are working on next, the holidays they’ve taken and the great times they’ve had, conversing about everything except their affair and past or current relationships, instinctively avoiding any subject that might bring down their jubilant mood. The clock winds back and it’s like when they were filming their movie, sitting outside on their boulders in the garden at the rear of the studio between takes, goofing around. They still have that same casual, enjoyable rapport between them and Georg finds himself laughing more than he has in months. That he’s actually seeing Tom again and talking with him fills some empty void in his soul and makes Georg feel lit up and energized in a way he hasn’t been for a long while. He’s actually happy. He feels as though his best buddy has come back after being AWOL for five years.

When Tom tells him that he has to go meet someone to update his website, Georg reluctantly pays the bill and they collect and put on various winter gear in preparation for heading outside in the biting cold: gloves, scarves, coats, hats. Just before they go their separate ways, the two actors exchange current phone numbers and promise to meet up again soon, hugging enthusiastically and slapping each other heartily on the back the way great pals do. Tom goes underground to catch the subway and Georg walks back to the hotel, smiling all the way, even when some jerk on a bicycle speeds past and splashes snow-slush onto his pants leg.
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Improvisation